


Collection of bandom ficlets

by turps



Category: Bandom, Fall Out Boy, My Chemical Romance, Panic At The Disco
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-08-16
Updated: 2012-08-16
Packaged: 2017-11-12 06:35:23
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 32
Words: 19,422
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/487809
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/turps/pseuds/turps
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>This isn't one story.</p><p>This is a collection of some of the ficlets and comment fic I've posted in my time in bandom. Most have been posted without seeing a beta and range from when I first started in bandom until now. So, don't expect a perfect polish. </p><p>I'm posting in chapters and will note what's in each one, so no seeing anything you don't want to see.</p><p>Chapter 1 -- Mikey/Patrick.  The first thing in bandom I ever wrote and posted.<br/>Chapter 2 -- Gerard/Mikey -- hand-holding.<br/>Chapter 3 -- Pete/Mikey -- midnight<br/>List continues in notes.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Chapter 4 -- Ryan/Jon -- hand-holding  
> Chapter 5 -- Mikey/Bob -- crosswords, summer  
> Chapter 6 -- Ryan/Brendon  
> Chapter 7 -- Frank the vampire -- includes character death that will result in someone coming back as a vampire.  
> Chapter 8 -- Frank/Mikey -- kissing  
> Chapter 9 -- Bob/Spencer -- xylophone  
> Chapter 10 -- Gen MCR post apoc.  
> Chapter 11 -- Tints verse snippet  
> Chapter 12 -- Frank/Mikey -- Do' Minos  
> Chapter 13 -- Bert/Gerard -- Ecstasy  
> Chapter 14 -- Bob/Frank/Gerard -- gazelle  
> Chapter 15 -- Frank -- stoned  
> Chapter 16 -- Bob/Mikey -- quilt ( slave and h/c warning )  
> Chapter 17 -- Gerard draws Frank wanking.  
> Chapter 18 -- Bob/Mikey -- from the Sound Tracking universe.  
> Chapter 19 -- Mikey/Ryan -- telepathic soul bonding -- warning for Ryan being bashed around.  
> Chapter 20 -- Bob centric wingfic.  
> Chapter 21 -- Jon/Brendon post apoc  
> Chapter 22 -- Mikey turns into a unicorn  
> Chapter 23 -- Ryan/Jon -- Ryan in a coma.  
> Chapter 24 -- Frank/Mikey -- Frank has a broken leg, Mikey cheers him up with bad jokes.  
> Chapter 25 -- Mikey -- set when we were still being teased with killjoys info and hadn't actually seen any of the videos.  
> Chapter 26 -- Ray/Brian -- a snippet set post Grey Crimson Skies  
> Chapter 27 -- Frank/Mikey -- killjoys getting married with ugly tattoos.  
> Chapter 28 -- Ray centric gsf snippet.  
> Chapter 29 -- Kobra Kid/Show Pony -- Pony teaches Kobra to rollerskate.  
> Chapter 30 -- Gen MCR roadtrip  
> Chapter 31 -- MCR gen set in the Every Snowflake is Different world.  
> Chapter 32 -- Killjoys at Christmas snippet

Patrick suspects the universe is telling him something. Something that clearly sounds like strange, skinny, slightly weird bassists are your destiny. Which isn’t a problem in itself, it’s just. Those strange, skinny, slightly weird bassists always come complete with baggage and quirks.

It’s why he’s found himself struggling to pull a fluffy pink jumper onto a wiggling cat, a task that seems impossible, and Patrick’s wondering what he’s done to deserve this.

“Hey,” Mikey says, and he crouches down, smiling as he runs his fingers along a small furred ear. “He looks great, you both do.” He looks up then, and his smile changes from one of affection to something more, something richer and intense, and Patrick gulps as he finally eases a cuff over a delicate paw.

Mikey rests his hand against Patrick’s jaw, long fingers and calloused fingertips, and he leans in, careful of the now purring cat. “You’re a natural.”

Patrick doesn’t agree, but he nods anyway, his eyes fluttering shut as Mikey brushes his lips against Patrick’s. The touch whisper soft, more a promise than an actual kiss.

“Pictures!”

Abruptly, Mikey’s gone, and Patrick should be used to this, because he’s spent a lifetime surrounded by people who spend their lives in quickfire motion, their rhythm that beat faster than his own. Except Mikey is gone for moments only, returning with a camera held in his hand.

Mikey sits next to Patrick, and his head is pressed against Patrick’s cheek, his hair tickling as he shifts, pulling the cat so he’s held under their chins, a pink jumpered ball of fluff. Patrick can’t help grinning when Mikey stretches out his arm, hand twisted so he can shoot a self picture, and says, “smile!”

The picture hits the internet the next day.

Five minutes after that, both Pete and Gerard call.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mikey/Gerard -- hand-holding. 
> 
> Originally published 2008

Gerard loves his bedroom. It’s familiar, full of treasured possessions he can reach out and touch. He likes that it’s dark, the small window covered, leaving a small beam of diffused light. One that’s full of dust motes that Gerard watches as he curls on his bed, motionless, the thoughts in his head blanketed by drugs.

“Gee.”

Gerard shifts his head, cheek against his drool-damp pillow, watches as Mikey walks down the stairs. He’s bundled in his coat, the furry hood against his back, and his cheeks are wind swept, cheekbones stark and made red with cold. His glasses are balanced at the end of his nose, steamed up and almost useless and Mikey blinks as he unzips his coat, shrugs it off and drops it onto the floor.

The bed dips when Mikey sits, and Gerard can feel the cold. It’s seeping from Mikey’s body, cold wind and snow, trapped in the fabric of his jeans, tangled in his hair. Gerard rolls closer, rests his cheek against Mikey’s thigh, smiles a little at the feel of Mikey’s hand in his hair.

“You’re cold,” Gerard says, and Mikey shrugs a reply, watches when Gerard shifts onto his side, and takes Mikey’s hand in his own. Mikey’s fingers are red, the tips white, and Gerard brings them to his mouth, tasting the cold against his tongue.

He sucks, cheeks hollowing as he runs his thumb across Mikey’s palm, slow unhurried strokes that pull at the beat in Gerard’s head, the reality of the moment momentarily pushing through the drugs, letting the melodies break free.

Mikey sighs and tilts back his head, exposing the line of his neck, the way his throat moves as he swallows. Gerard can’t look away, keeps watching as he licks along Mikey’s fingers, over the calluses and chilled skin. Slow, always so slow, and Mikey’s mouth is slightly open, his eyes closed as Gerard stops licking and presses a kiss against Mikey’s palm.

Mikey smiles, then curls his hand, his fingers damp against Gerard’s cheek, the heel of his palm against Gerard’s chin. He pulls his hand down, stroking over Gerard’s jaw, his neck, his chest. Mikey’s stops then, his hand splayed and it takes seconds for Gerard to entwine their fingers once more, neither saying a word, just holding on


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Pete/Mikey -- midnight
> 
> Originally posted 2008

It’s minutes after walking off stage and Mikey’s wringing out his hair. The strands cling to his hands, sticky with sweat and product and when he stands he runs his hand over his head, rubs his palms down his thighs.

He feels hot and gross, suffering that step between performing when the sweat is fresh, and later when it’s dried and he can forget how his clothes clung to his body, his hair plastered against his head.

Now his t-shirt is clammy against his skin, and his jeans chafe and if he could be bothered he’d find Frank and his little make-shift shower. He can’t though, and instead grabs the hem of his t-shirt, pulling it over his head.

“Mikeyway, is that you putting on a strip show for me?”

Which is just typical, and Mikey bundles the t-shirt up in his hand, crosses his arms across his bare chest and tries to show just how unconcerned he is that Pete Wentz is _leering_ at him. Not that Mikey cares as such, he lives on a tour bus, he’s used to being seen semi-naked and Pete is just Pete, no one to get self conscious around. Still, Mikey wishes he’d left on his t-shirt. He’d feel less exposed as Pete walks closer, his smile bright like the sun.

“You were good today, really good.” Pete’s smile flickers, as if he’s suddenly unsure of what to say, and Mikey wants to help, smooth over the suddenly awkward silence, but he’s never been good with words and he manages a small smile, is about to go when Pete reaches out, his fingers warm against Mikey’s side, and says. “Wait.”

Mikey does, all too aware that Pete doesn’t move his hand, his fingers resting over the bump of ribs, and Mikey’s sure Pete will be able to feel his heart, the way it’s thundering in his chest.

“I thought, maybe later. We could hang out.”

Pete looks at Mikey through his lashes, has his foot turned on its side, and sounds more unsure than Mikey’s ever heard. It only makes Mikey like him even more.

“Sure, I mean. I’d like that.”

Pete’s answering smile is contagious, and Mikey finds himself smiling too, with teeth even, and he’s just glad there’s no one around but Pete to see.

“Good, great. I’ll come get you. Is midnight okay?”

“That’s fine,” Mikey says, and doesn’t think how he’ll have to sneak out of the bus, or the questions he’ll have to field.

“Awesome.” Pete’s still smiling, jumping on the balls of his feet, like the energy inside him is seeking escape. Then he’s shrugging off his jacket and hands it over, pushing it into Mikey’s hands.

“You’ll get cold with no top on.”

Which makes no sense, because it’s not cold at all. Still, Mikey pulls it on, the denim scraping against his skin, and when he fastens it all he can smell is Pete, and maybe it does make sense now. Pete seems to think so when he steps close and leans up, brushing a brief kiss against Mikey’s mouth.

“I’ll see you later, Mikeyway.”

Then disappears, leaving Mikey looking at his watch, counting the hours until twelve.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ryan/Jon -- hand-holding
> 
> Originally posted in 2008

This is stupid. Stupid and idiotic and, fuck!” Jon said, and he scowled, hands curled into tight fists. “We don’t owe them anything.”

“I know,” Ryan said, and tugged on the cuff of his sleeve, smoothed his hand down the front of his vest.

“Why do they even need to know?” Jon said, and turned toward Ryan. “We’re not made for the front page of the People; we’re not fucking Lance Bass.”

“Pity,” Ryan said, and dipped his head, hiding his smile when Jon froze in place, his mouth open slightly as he stared.

“You’re. I thought…Lance?” Jon blinked, looked at Ryan. “I thought you had a Backstreet thing. Nick whatever he’s called?”

Ryan adjusted his hat, looked at himself in the mirror to ensure it was at the correct jaunty angle. “Carter. His name’s Nick Carter.” Which was something Jon knew fine well, but Ryan was used to the teasing, and he smiled slightly, looking at Jon’s reflection in the mirror. “I’d do Lance.”

There was a silence, then Jon was smiling too, his hands uncurling, his shoulders relaxing as he moved to stand behind Ryan and said, fondly,

“You’re a slut, Ryan Ross.”

“For some things.” Ryan caught Jon’s gaze in the mirror, took a small step back so he was leaning against Jon’s chest, their bodies pressed close. “For you.”

“Good,” Jon said, and wrapped his arm around Ryan’s shoulder, his hand against Ryan’s chest.

Ryan kept looking in the mirror, brought his own hand up to Jon’s and entwined their fingers. Jon hand was warm, his fingers soft apart from the spots hardened by years of playing bass. Ryan squeezed, shifted their hands so they were pressed over his heart, and hoped Jon understood.

Jon turned his head, pressed a kiss against Ryan’s jaw, and his lips were warm, his beard scratching against Ryan’s skin, and he said. “I know.”


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mikey/Bob -- crosswords, summer.
> 
> Originally posted in 2008.

Bob stalks through the hotel lobby, on a mission to save Mikey from himself, and also an imminent death at the hands of his own band. Because Mikey's been down-right surely lately -- at least Mikey surely -- with excessive rolling of his eyes, and a sneer that had been a permanent fixture for days. Bob's sick of the cutting comments, and the way even Gerard isn't safe from Mikey’s sarcastic wrath.

Something needed to be done, and Bob is the man for the job.

Mikey isn't difficult to find, the looming security guard a certain give-away, and it doesn't take long for Bob to sign a few autographs and edge his way into the hotel coffee shop, where Mikey's sitting on one of the plush chairs, elbows propped on the table top and looking into a huge coffee mug, as if the secrets of the world are held in the chocolate-sprinkled foam.

“Mikey.” Bob waves away his own body guard and pulls out a chair, ignoring the way Mikey doesn't acknowledge him at all. “You disappeared this morning.”

Mikey says nothing, but Bob is patient, busies himself ordering food, the pastel pink menu dwarfed in his hand. He stands, asks for a coffee and cookies, then sits, and it’s only then that Mikey replies.

“I needed some time; alone.”

It’s pointed, but Bob looks past the tone, sees how Mikey’s holding onto his coffee cup, his knuckles white, the way his eyes are shadowed and his cheek bones sharp. He looks exhausted, wrung out and raw. Bob understands, Mikey’s made for late nights and dark, not this incessant sunshine, constant heat and a series of press and fan greets that seem never ending.

Still, while they all understand, Bob knows this can’t go on.

“When’s the last time you slept?” Bob doesn’t expect an immediate reply, but he keeps watching as the waitress places a plate of fortune cookies and a coffee in front of him. He smiles his thanks, and picks up a cookie, biting into it and pulling out the fortune as Mikey watches.

“What does it say?” Mikey takes a drink of his own coffee, wiping away the foam left on his lip with the back of his hand. Looks at Bob, and finally, quietly says, “two days ago.”

It’s what Bob suspected. It’s been too hot to sleep, almost too hot to eat, but at least he knows what to do.

“It says fortune smiles on the brave.” Which is a sucky fortune, because Bob knows plenty brave people who’ve never seen fortune, and he reaches across the table, rests his hand on Mikey’s and says, “come on, we’re going to bed.”

“That’s forward of you.” For an instant, it almost looks like Mikey smiles, then he’s as expressionless as ever, unless you’re Bob who can see the need, the relief Mikey allows himself to give in and stands, Bob’s hand on his elbow.

They walk back to their rooms, and Bob ushers Mikey past the others, into the bedroom where a fan is whirring, the bed covers folded back. Mikey drops down onto the bed, toes off his shoes, yawning wide as he pulls up his legs, lies on his side and looks at Bob through already shutting eyes.

“You coming?” Mikey asks, exhaustion heavy in his voice, and Bob is tempted, but he shakes his head and settles down on the floor, picks up a newspaper and looks for his page.

“Later, I need to finish this.” He picks up the pen he left on the bedside table, licks at the points and says, “Four letters, an animal with horns.”

Mikey’s asleep before Bob has finished saying the first clue.


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ryan/Brendon
> 
> Originally posted in 2008

“I said no.” Ryan shifted, tucked up his leg, his heel caught on the edge of the couch. “You go, have fun.”

“I want you to come,” Brendon said, pleading, eyes wide and hopeful.

Ryan looked at him, looked away and dipped his head, his hair falling around his face, his attempt at hiding in plain sight. Brendon didn’t leave, just stood his ground, bouncing slightly on the balls of his feet. He was making the bus shift, just enough that Ryan leaned into the movement, pressed his hand onto the pile of papers at his side, scribbled lyrics and crossed out lines.

They were his excuse for staying in. Holed up on this too small bus and surrounded by things he’d looked at a thousand times. He should have been going stir crazy, but he wasn't. He didn’t care at all, could stay here forever, in this space where he knew everything and everyone.

“I think you need to come out,” Brendon said, and his smile faltered, his bouncing slowing down until he was perfectly still, his hands clasped together.

Ryan shot him a look and then looked away, stared at his notebooks through a curtain of hair. He didn’t need to go out. He’d been there, done that, gave himself to the fans, to the promoters, handing over a little of himself each day. Ryan could only stand to give so much, needed to keep more for himself, wrestle back some of the control he had to give up for this tour.

“Or we could go for a walk,” Brendon smiled again, wide and bright. “It’s nice outside, the moon’s out, perfect for walking. Not that I mean romantic walking in the moonlight, though that would be nice.”

Brendon hesitated, his smile slipping, and Ryan felt guilty because he’d do anything for Brendon; just not tonight. Uncapping his pen, he picked up his notebook, balanced it on his knee and tried to decipher the words the tumbled through his head. He expected to feel the bus move, the swish of the door as Brendon headed out for the company he craved.

Instead, he felt the couch dip, looked up to see Brendon settling next to him, shoes kicked off as he wormed into place, wiggling until his head was against Ryan’s shoulder, his hand resting on Ryan’s thigh.

“I thought I’d stay in tonight,” Brendon said. He looked at Ryan through dark lashes, his mouth curled into a smile. “I could help with the lyrics. If you want.” He tilted his head, pressed his mouth against Ryan’s neck. Butterfly kisses and a reassuring presence, allowing Ryan time to regroup.


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A ficlet about Frank the vampire.
> 
> Originally posted in 2008.

It's 3:47 when Frank lowers Gerard to the bed. He's pliant in Frank's arms, spine curved and head back, dark lashes against pale skin, mouth open in memory of one last panicked gasp.

Carefully, Frank settles him down, straightens Gerard's arms, smooths his shirt and finger-combs his hair so it's lying straight, concealing the marks that puncture his neck. Giving dignity in these first moments of death.

That done, Frank sits. He waits, holding vigil.

It's 4:02 when he hears the rattle of the front door.

Frank breathes in deep and runs his fingers along the line of Gerard's jaw. Gathering courage, excuses, explanations.

He stands and crosses the room in the blink of an eye, meeting Mikey in the hall. Frank watches as he pulls off his damp coat and hangs it on the hook, his smaller jacket, his hoodie, peeling off his layers. Mikey's pulled in tight, his face pinched and his eyes shadowed. His t-shirt is stained at the hem and his jeans soaked half-way to his knees.

Frank reaches out, cups his hands over Mikey's face and his skin is chilled, the evidence of snow and icy winds. Frank shivers as he stretches up, his bare toes curled against the floor.

The kiss is brief -- alcohol, cold, fresh blood, regret -- Mikey's tongue licking over sharpened teeth and the sticky coating of blood. He pulls back then, his eyes wide, his mouth open as he licks at his lips, demands.

"What have you done?"

Mikey stills and tilts his head, listening.

He runs then, there one moment, gone the next. Frank follows, and by the time he gets to the bedroom Mikey's sitting on the bed, Gerard held on his lap. Gerard's head lolls against Mikey's shoulder, his legs between Mikey's, fitting in the way they never should but always do. And so obviously dead that the grief is momentarily crushing, taking away Frank's breath.

"I should hate you."

Mikey's eyes are wet, his hand is pressed against Gerard's chest.

Frank says nothing. The words pushed back until they're thick in his throat. That Gerard begged for this, begged until Frank couldn't say no.

"I should, but I don't." Mikey runs his fingertips over Gerard's neck and brings them away with the faintest trace of blood. He looks at Frank, keeps looking as he sucks his fingers into his mouth. Draws then out, and says, quietly, "I couldn't have left him behind."

Frank nods, because he knew that. The same way he knew if Gerard hadn't been turned, eventually Frank would have lost them both. Which is why it has to be this way, and why Frank continues to mourn as he curls up by Mikey's side, waiting for Gerard to be reborn.


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Frank/Mikey -- kissing
> 
> Originally posted in 2009

The thing is, Frank has a plan.

It's not a complicated plan, and in fact comes down to only four points. (1) That Mikey's been exposed to Frank for a long time now, and hasn't walked away yet. (2) That when he wants to be, Frank's kinda hot. (3) That he'll start small and work up, a kiss on the hand, the cheek, the lips, it's a logical progression. (4) The most important point of all, he's got Gerard's approval, at least, Frank thinks there was approval in Gerard's frenzied flailing and stuttering speech -- which really, Frank still thinks that was an overreaction, all he asked was permission to kiss Mikey, not tie him down, fuck him senseless and put him away wet.

So yeah, Frank has a plan, one based on long-term friendship, looking good, graduated kissing and brotherly approval. How could it possibly fail?

~~~~

The first problem is, Mikey isn't a hand kissing guy.

He's tactile when he wants to be, Frank often finds him leaning against Gerard, magazine in hand and body contorted, like bones have no purpose in Mikey's world. He's also the master of quickfire hugs, the kind where he grabs hold, clings for all of a second then saunters away, as if he hasn't stopped at all.

But hand kissing? It's harder than Frank expects.

He tries, he reaches for Mikey's hand and entwines their fingers, and Mikey makes no protest. Just quirks his lips into a slight smile and then goes back to watching TV, as if he sits holding hands with Frank every day. Which is nice and all -- Mikey's hand is warm and the hard pads of his fingertips tickle when he laughs -- but Frank has a plan. Which is why he starts to bring Mikey's hand to his mouth, lips pursed in anticipation for this first kiss.

"Hell no," Mikey says, and he pulls his hand away. "No biting my fingers."

Which Frank would protest, but Ray's sitting close and Gerard's watching and Frank has a reputation to protect. He dives, snapping his teeth as he and Mikey fall to the floor with a thump, both laughing all the while.

~~~~

Looking irresistible is easier.

Frank pulls on his favourite jeans, the ones with holes in both knees, and a threadbare t-shirt that clings just right, showing off the lines of his ink. He's washed his hair and applied varnish to his nails, finally ringing his eyes with black. Putting the lid back on the liner, Frank looks in the mirror and grins. He looks fantastic, Mikey doesn't stand a chance.

A last finger comb of his hair, and Frank goes to the lounge of the bus. Mikey's playing some card game with Bob, something that involves a pile of cheetos and what looks like two decks -- Mikey's fantasy set and the naked women no one will admit to buying. Mikey's frowning down at his hand, and when he hears Frank he looks up over the rim of his glasses.

"You're going out?"

Frank shakes his head, if Mikey's staying in Frank will too. "I thought I'd stay in, watch a movie."

"Shame," Mikey says, and he sets down his cards. "I fold." He stands then, patting Bob's shoulder as he makes for the door. "Ask Frankie to play with you, I'll see you later."

He goes, and Frank resists the urge to beat his own head against the wall.

~~~~

Frank tries kissing Mikey's cheek on stage.

It's starts well, the crowd yelling as he stalks close, then someone throws another fucking feather boa and it wraps around his feet and Frank's falling to his knees. When he looks up Mikey's expression hasn't changed, but it doesn't have to. Frank knows him, and can easily see the laughter in the set of his shoulders and the glint of his eyes.

When Frank stands his knees are aching, and he savagely kicks the boa before throwing himself into his playing, expressing his frustations with each fresh note.

~~~~

 

In the end, it's Gerard that saves the day.

He doesn't know about the plan, not exactly, it's not like Frank explained. But he does know Frank, and he knows Mikey and all Frank can do is sit and gape, mouth open like some kind of idiot, when Gerard takes hold of Mikey's arm and says, "Frank wants to kiss you."

"He does?" Mikey says, and looks past Gerard and raises one eyebrow. "You do?"

"Yeah," Frank says.

Mikey rubs his palms over his thighs, smiles slightly and says, "What are you waiting for, then?"

It's all the invitation Frank needs. Thankfully Gerard slips away, so he doesn't see how Frank pounces, his hands against Mikey's back, feeling the curve of his spine, how he breathes in deep then slouches until he's the perfect height for a kiss. Hand cupped against Mikey's cheek, Frank's heart is thumping as he leans in, not touching but so close he can feel each exhale, the faintest brush of lips as he thinks finally.

His plan coming to fruition at last.


	9. Chapter 9

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bob/Spencer -- xylophone
> 
> Originally posted in 2009

"It's a xylophone," Spencer says, and bangs the stick against one of the bars, wanting to emphasis his disgust. Except this is a fucking xylophone and they don't do emphasis, all they do is a stupid ringing note that seem to go on and on and on. "You get to drum and I get this."

"There's only room for one kit," Bob says, obviously not caring about Spencer's xylophone induced pain. "If you're that bothered go bitch at Ryan, he's the one who wanted this collaboration."

"At least you're not stuck with a fucking tambourine, again." Mikey trudges past, a tambourine held loosely in one hand. "Every time, every fucking time. Give Mikey the tambourine. It's not like he plays anything else."

Spencer rests his stick -- beater -- whatever, against the bars of the xylophone, watching as Mikey settles himself on a riser, dejection seeming to roll from him in waves. "He must really hate the tambourine."

"He'll get over it," Bob says shortly, as if he doesn't keep glancing over while adjusting his kit. "And it looks like he's going to get help."

Spencer follows Bob's gaze and sees Brendon, who's carrying his own tambourine, which, unlike Mikey's, has trailing red ribbons attached to one side. "Brendon loves the tambourine."

"Yeah?" Bob watches as Brendon sits next to Mikey and immediately starts talking, each hand gesture accompanied by a chink of sound.

Spencer watches too, only turning away when Mikey smiles, more Ryan style than anything, but still, it's there.

"You know, evidence to the contrary, Mikey's quite capable of holding a conversation."

Which is something Spencer knows, it's just, _Brendon_. Spencer's not about to stand by and watch him get mocked or crushed by anyone, no matter how harmless they seem.

"He's not an asshole either, relax."

"I am," Spencer says, and makes a conscious effort to stop watching, turning his attention to Bob. "I'm the most relaxed fucking xylophone player in the world," and to prove it, Spencer plays a forceful tune, more random notes than any actual song.

"Impressive," Bob says, and picks up the rhythm, beating it out on his drums. "You should show Ross, xylophones can be Panic's next big concept."

"Fuck you," Spencer says sweetly, taking Bob's rhythm and making it more, faster, his hands a blur as he beats at the bars.

Bob stops playing with one last crash of sound, hands and sticks held on top of his drum. "Pity, you look good playing that."

"If you mean stupid, yeah." Spencer puts down his own sticks. "If you like them so much you should have them, let me play drums."

"In your dreams," Bob says, and he slides out from behind his kit. "How about I take you for coffee instead? If we go now we'll tragically miss the wardrobe meeting."

"That is tragic," Spencer says. "Almost as much as you using me as an excuse for an escape."

"Partially," Bob agrees, and he steps closer and rests his hand against Spencer's arm, the briefest of touch. "Mostly it's me making a move."

"That's forward of you." Spencer smiles, says, "Let's go."


	10. Chapter 10

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> MCR post apoc fic.
> 
> Originally posted 2009

The rails wobble slightly as Bob sits, his legs dangling over the side of the ferry. He's wearing tan boots and the black laces trail toward the water, one side longer than the other. The toes of his boots turn dark with the splash of the waves. "We're running out of water."

Gerard's arms are crossed on the rails, rust flaking against his skin. He's got his cheek resting against his forearm and his lips are gritty with salt, he licks across them, looks down at Bob's feet next to his own. "How long?"

"Enough for a day, maybe less."

It's what Gerard expected. The cases of water are long gone and the two tanks deep in the hull of the Jesse May are emptying fast, even with the rationing they all carefully observe. It was inevitable they'd need more and Gerard looks toward shore and thinks about finding water, more cases of the bottled kind or rigging up some kind of hose so they can refill the tanks.

"Captain says there's a river three hours east, it'll be easier to get supplies inland."

It's also more dangerous inland, but that's left unsaid. Gerard digs his thumbnail under a flake of rust and watches it float toward the ocean, a speck of red swallowed by angry dark blue.

"We should make a list," Gerard says. "There's other things we need."

Bob's nose is red and his hair is tangled, salt crusted strands pulled back with a scrap of material. "I'd hand over my bank balance for sunblock and some fucking clippers."

"Coffee for me, the good shit," Gerard says. He half closes his eyes and looks up at the sky, at the red-tinged clouds and bright sun, black smoke like swirling ribbons of ink. "We need to find a pharmacy."

"Yeah," Bob says, a long pause and then. "He still awake?"

"He was when I left."

"Fuck," Bob says, and he doesn't move when they hit a large wave, water soaking the bottom of his jeans.

Gerard's tired and he lets his eyes close, opens them and stares down at the ocean, listening to the splash of waves against the hull. "We should tell Captain to make for the river."

"Okay," Bob says.

~*~*~*~

It's weeks since they've been so close to land.

They sail past docks and buildings, their windows broken, dark spaces surrounded by jagged shards. Some of the docks are splintered, planks of wood sagging or fully collapsed into the brackish water, the wood covered in creeping black slime. There's a body trapped under the nearest dock, bloated, one puffed up hand jammed between the slats as if they died holding on .Gerard stands still, his thighs pressed against the metal bars of the railings, the cold bleeding through his sweat pants as he watches. He swallows hard and looks away.

"You shouldn't be out here alone," Mikey says, he's huddled inside one of his hoodies, his shoulders pulled in and hands tucked into the pocket. He hasn't slept for days and the shadows under his eyes are easily visible despite the veil of hair that falls forward over his face.

"I'm not alone." Gerard tilts his chin up at Captain who's in the small navigational room at the top of the ferry. It's where he keeps watch, his hat pulled low as he keeps them away from shore.

"He couldn't help in time." Mikey notices the corpse and steps forward, against the railings and close to the edge, his toes hanging off into space, says, "Ever think it's better that way?"

"No," Gerard says, skin prickling with all too familiar fear. "We don't give up."

"Maybe that's not our choice?" Mikey says, turning his head, tracking the body they're leaving behind.

"Our choice is to keep fighting," Gerard says, and he clenches his hands against the need to grab Mikey and shake him.

"I'm trying," Mikey says, and he blinks and looks at Gerard. "Matt's made breakfast."

"Right, good," Gerard says. "You're coming in to eat?"

"In a minute." Mikey brings his hands out of his pockets and flips open his phone.

Gerard nods and turns away, heads inside as Mikey dials, says, Alicia, are you there? It's Mikey.

She won't answer.

She never does.


	11. Chapter 11

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tints verse snippet.
> 
> Originally posted in 2009

"Mikey's hanging out for a few hours," Frank announces brightly as he appears around the side of the house. He's holding Mikey's hand, their fingers entwined, a pair of pink gardening gloves tucked under his arm. His lady-bug gum-boots slap against the sidewalk as Frank walks, each painted bug a brilliant red, an exact match to the streak in his hair.

Bob drops an armful of weeds into the wheelbarrow, says, "What happened to the blue hair?"

Frank grins and shrugs, making the strap of his overalls fall down over his arm. He tugs it up, says, "Change Bob, you should embrace it one day."

"I've changed plenty," Bob says. "I don't need to make like a parrot to prove it."

"But I make parrot look good." A quick smile and Frank lets go of Mikey's hand, waving as he circles the over-grown flower beds, making his way over to Bob and Ray. "Give me jobs, boss man."

Ray thinks about the plans for this garden, the sheer amount of work that needs doing before they can even think about new plants. "You can take over on the flowerbed, it looks like there's healthy growth under there. Just..." He hesitates then and itches at his neck, hating this part of the job. "I don't mind you bringing Mikey, it's just, I need you to work, this is a big job and..."

"I know," Frank says, interrupting, his lingering smile fading. He pushes his sunglasses to the top of his head, the pink plastic frames clashing with his hair. "Gee had a bad night, Mikey needed a break."

Bob looks up sharply. "They okay?"

"Gerard's at his therapist's. Mikey's..." Frank looks over at Mikey, who's settled on a low wall, looking pale and worn against the chaotic jumble of overgrown bright flowers and tangled green weeds. "Like I said. He needed a break."

"Mikey should have called, I'd have gone over." Bob picks up another handful of weeds, throwing them on top of the pile.

Frank bites at his thumbnail, worrying at the ragged edge. "Well yeah. He knows that but he's used to dealing on his own. They both are." He licks at the blood beading at the edge of his nail, then pulls on his gloves. "Flowerbed, right."

"Hold on." Ray grabs for the straps of Frank's overalls, stopping him from walking away. "They can wait a while, go sit with Mikey."

Confused, Frank looks behind him, then immediately runs when he sees Mikey has folded in on himself, his hands fisted in front of his face, his shoulders moving minutely.

It feels wrong to watch somehow, like Ray's seeing something that's meant to be hidden. The barriers Mikey tends to hide behind stripped away, revealing that he really is a kid. One who's seen too much too soon.

"I could let Frank go, we'd manage between us."

"No," Bob says in reply, and he picks up his spade, thrusting it deep in the ground. "They'd only go back to the house and Frank's got it in hand."

Which seems to be true. Frank's got his arm over Mikey's shoulders, their heads together as he talks, and maybe Ray can't hear what he's saying, but he can see Frank, and that's enough to know each word is accompanied by love.

Ray turns away, giving them time as he attacks the garden once again.


	12. Chapter 12

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Frank/Mikey -- Do' Minos

"Do' Minos. Seriously?" Frank says, and looks over the top of his laptop screen. "That shit works for you?"

"Every time." Mikey gestures with his slushee cup, pointing the straw toward Frank. "One mention of my exotic taste buds and they're falling at my feet."

"Right, your exotic taste buds," Frank says, raising an eyebrow. "It's nothing to do with you being in a successful band."

"Are you suggesting I'm only wanted for my money?" Mikey says, his cheeks hollowing as he slurps up the last of his drink.

Frank pushes his laptop aside and sprawls out, head resting against the back of the sofa as he watches Mikey throw the empty cup toward the trash can, and miss completely. "Well it's not for your sporting prowess."

Mikey flops down next to Frank, slumping down and waving his hand in a lazy gesture. "The inhabitants of Planet Awesome shy away from sports involving baskets."

"The inhabitants of Planet Awesome are delusional," Frank says, grinning.

"No, we just know our strengths." Mikey says, and he smiles then, the slightest curl of his mouth. "I was thinking, do you want to order in? I know this great Italian restaurant."

Frank bites back his smile, says, "It sounds authentic."

"It is." Mikey slumps further to the side until he's resting almost completely against Frank. "It's a surprise every time."

"How could I resist?"

"You can't," Mikey says. "I told you, it's a sure thing."

Moving so he can rest his arm around Mikey's shoulders, Frank smiles, says, "You're a smooth operator, Mikey Way."

Mikey gives a thumbs up in reply.


	13. Chapter 13

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bert/Gerard -- Ecstasy
> 
> Originally posted 2009

Gerard lies on the floor of the bus and turns his head to the side, he can see a black sock and tangle of cables, a half eaten slice of pizza, curled up and covered in mold. He runs his hand through Bert's hair, fingers sliding through grease and sweat and come.

"Your mama still coming to visit?" Bert says. He's breathing slowly and his t-shirt is hitched up to his chest, exposing his stomach and matted trail of hair. His pants and boxers are kicked into the corner and he's wearing black socks, the heels threadbare, both with holes in the toes.

"Yeah," Gerard says. He scratches at his arm, nails digging into his skin. "Sometime tomorrow, who the fuck knows."

"Right." Bert rubs at his dick, at the sweat that's gathered in the crease between his legs and groin. He dries his fingers on his t-shirt then puts his hands behind his head. "I'll keep out of the way."

"What? Fuck no." Gerard rolls over and props himself up on his elbow, tugging at his pajama pants where they're tugged sharply to the side. "She wants to see you. It's like a fucking decree."

Bert bends his legs, twisting slightly so he can tuck one foot under Gerard's shin. "She know I'm fucking you?"

"She knows everything," Gerard says, and he rests his hand on Bert's knee, moving his thumb over the crease of thigh and calf. "She's hard core Jersey, you'll like her."

"Not the issue really," Bert says.

Gerard pushes a hank of hair from his face, the remains of white and red face-paint smearing over his palm. "She'll fucking love you."

Bert grins. "Of course she will, I fuck her kid into ecstasy, that's always a draw."

"It is for me." Gerard lies back down, looks at the ceiling with the mystery stains, Bert pressed against him, yet more heat in this over-hot space.

Gerard doesn't move.


	14. Chapter 14

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bob/Frank/Gerard -- Gazelle
> 
> Originally posted in 2009

They end up at a motel in Shitville Motherfuckwherever.

Two rooms for five people and the PA has to jiggle the lock before it opens, then steps back, letting them all walk inside.

She follows them in and looks around, taking in the sagging bed and the cracked mirror, the carpet with the mysterious brown stains. She swallows hard and her knuckles are white where she's gripping her cell. "I'll find a better hotel, there has to be one at the next town, and a taxi. There has to be a firm somewhere." She pushes her damp bangs off her forehead and rubs at her face. "I'm sorry, I should have known."

"That the bus would break down?" Gerard asks, pushing up his sunglasses so they're perched at the top of his head. "Unless you've got some serious premonition skills going on, you're off that hook."

Frank throws himself down on the bed, collapsing back with a sigh. "Personally I'd prefer to read minds, think of the secrets you'd find."

"Except reading minds without permission is like mental rape, it's bad shit," Gerard says, and he sits next to Frank, poking him hard in the stomach. "Premonitions let you change the future."

Lazily, Frank bats at Gerard's hand. "Right, if we'd known we'd be stuck here I'd have rode on the crew bus." He props himself up on one elbow, looking intently at the PA. "Did you know?"

"What? No. I didn't, I mean, I'm going to go look up that hotel."

She drops the keys on the dressing table and leaves with a last concerned look. Frank flops back down, grinning when Gerard pokes at him again.

"You shouldn't tease like that."

Frank shrugs, unconcerned. "She'll learn, and you brought up super powers."

Gerard considers, and eventually concedes with a wave of his hand, says, "I guess." He taps his fingers against his thigh, considering the implications of mind reading as Bob scowls at the cot with a visibly buckled leg and Ray attempts to open the connecting door to the next room. "I'd let you all read my mind."

"You'd assume we'd want to," Bob says, and gives up frowning at the cot, turning his attention to Gerard instead. "I like my mind unscarred."

"Hey," Gerard protests, because really, the way Bob's talking it's like Gerard's some kind of freak.

"It's true though." Ray keeps twisting the key, trying to force it to turn. "Reading your mind would be like peering into a freaky room, one filled with dark corners and creepy shit that looms in the dark."

"With added zombies and blow up dolls, all of them covered in blood," Bob says. He sits on the end of the bed, making it creak alarmingly. "And that's just the surface junk, going deeper has to mean instant insanity."

"I don't know," Frank says, looking thoughtful as he links his hands behind his head. "He's got that freaky thing going on with Mikey, and he's not scarred."

"That's because Mikey's a freak, too," Bob says immediately.

Gerard reaches out his foot, kicking Bob in the ankle. "Don't call my brother a freak, and we don't have a freaky thing going on."

"You kind of do," Ray says, and looks at Mikey, who's standing next to the window, watching something outside. "Mikey, what's Gerard thinking?"

"That he's too hot and wants an iced coffee." Mikey turns and lets the curtain drop back into place, disturbing dust that clouds in the air. "I'm going to the pool."

"Have you seen the water? It's dark green, there's probably a sea monster in there," Gerard says. "Keep away from the edge, and if you see....see..."

"Bethany," Mikey adds. "I'll tell her what you want."

He pulls up the hood of his hoodie and goes outside.

"Seriously, did you see that water?" Gerard stands and looks out of the window, watching as Mikey ambles toward the pool, a splodge of darkness against the light.

"I saw him knowing what you were thinking," Ray says, finally giving up on turning the key.

Gerard indicates his shirt that clings to his body with sweat. "Anyone can see I'm too hot and the coffee thing's hardly a secret."

"I guess," Ray says then moves to stand next to Gerard, both of them watching as Mikey turns and slowly walks back toward the room. "He didn't last long."

"Gerard's calling him back," Frank says, and when Gerard turns to look at him Frank's grinning wide.

Which isn't true at all, and Gerard's about to say so when Mikey opens the door and looks inside.

"I forgot to say, I'm bunking with Ray tonight."

"Fine by me," Ray says, and when Mikey immediately leaves, Ray follows. "I'll come look for sea monsters with you."

"Told you," Frank says, sounding smug as he pushes himself up and scrambles back on the bed. Resting against the padded velvet headboard he reaches for the TV remote and switches on the TV.

"What?" Confused, Gerard looks from Frank to the TV, the channels changing rapidly until finally Frank settles on some nature programme, one where a lion is ripping apart a gazelle.

"We're surrounded by freaks," Bob says, and kicks off his sneakers before shifting so he can rub his sodden socks down Frank's leg.

"Seriously, what?" Gerard demands, because they're both laughing, and Gerard hates being outside of the joke.

Finally Frank takes pity, says, "Tell me you weren't thinking about being alone with us tonight."

Gerard looks at the way Bob's curled his hand around Frank's arm, the comfortable way they're sitting close while still leaving room for Gerard. Of course Gerard was thinking about being alone with them, but what that's got to do with Mikey.... "Oh."

"Nice job, Gee," Frank says, and he pats a space on the bed. "Come sit."

Gerard does, slipping easily between them, his head against Bob's shoulder, Frank's hand entwined in his own as they watch the gazelle be reduced to bones.


	15. Chapter 15

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Frank -- stoned
> 
> Originally posted in 2009

Frank heads into the utility room and grabs his bong, the cheap one that reminds him of countless nights back in Jersey, too many people crowded in too small of a room. Other supplies next and over the years his mental list has been perfected so it doesn't take long to gather a lighter, the good weed, a huge assortment of munchable snacks. He piles everything on the low coffee table, pushing aside Jamia's magazines and a well-chewed dog toy, the rope wet through with spit.

The packet of Cheetos falls to the ground and immediately Mikey grabs the bag, pulling it open and taking a handful of the chips. Orange dust falls on his t-shirt and he tries to wipe it off while trying to fend off Bob who's intent on taking the bag. In the end he grabs it from Mikey's hand, looking victorious as he tucks it between his knees.

"Chip stealing bastard," Mikey says, but he's leaning back against the sofa, looking amused as Frank packs the bowl and takes the first hit.

He's done this hundreds of times now and he can never predict the results. It's part of the process that Frank loves and he inhales, drawing the smoke into his lungs and keeping it there until he exhales with a long breath. Eyelids heavy, Frank leans against the table, watching as Ray moves forward, ready to take his own hit. Frank blinks, chin propped on his hand and tilts his head, needing the perfect angle to see, because Ray's mouth always looks fucking obscene.

"Jesus fuck, could we do this once without the commentary about Ray's cock sucking lips?" Bob says, and waves his hand in front of Frank's face. "Quit it."

"You're just jealous," Frank says, torn between watching Ray and the way Bob's fingers sail through the air, like a bunch of pale sausages in free flight.

"Yeah, that's it exactly," Bob says, and moves forward as Ray sits back, last wisps of smoke escaping his mouth.

"That is so fucking hot." Frank launches himself forward and grabs hold of Ray's shoulders, holding on as he presses their mouths together -- hard. Ray's mouth tastes of smoke, the distinct taste of weed, and Frank needs more, runs his tongue over Ray's bottom lip and pushes into his mouth before pulling back slightly. "So fucking hot."

"Are you done?" Bob asks, looking between Frank and the window.

Frank squirms until he's sitting in Ray's lap, says, "For now," already giggling at the feel of Ray's laughter and the gust of breath close to his ear.

"Good," Bob says, and looks over his shoulder toward the front door. "You locked it, right?"

"I did." Frank leans back against Ray, feeling heavy and sleepy, looks up and says, "You have amazing lips."

Ray beams, his teeth white and his lips amazing. "Thank you," and presses a kiss against the top of Frank's head as the watch Mikey crawl to the table.


	16. Chapter 16

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bob/Mikey -- slaves

Mikey knows that, he's knows, but there's no way he can keep watching as the kid is beaten within an inch of his life. Already he's watched too many people die, from starvation and illness and ill treatment, Mikey can't see that happen again. It's why he jumps forward, screaming obscenities as he charges the guard who stands over the kid, hand raised for one final brutal blow.

Not that the guard goes down, there's no way he would, Mikey knew that too. But that's fine, because as he's forced to the ground Mikey sees the kid's friends pick him up and hide him away. Which makes it worthwhile, even as he gasps from the first vicious hit. A fist to his jaw, a boot to his side, a dark blur as a stick flashes past his face and impacts against his collar-bone with a dull thud of sound.

Mikey gags then, fights for breath against the pain in his chest, the blood that trickles down his throat. Whimpering, face pressed against the dirt, a knee against his spine and his arms forced up and back, blackness crowding in as he hears a shout and sees Gerard attempt to run forward, but be held back by Ray and Frank.

Mikey's glad about that, this is his stand, his punishment to take.

~~~

Usually punishment is swift and brutal, this time they're making a point.

Mikey's held up by two guards, their fingers digging cruelly into the muscles of his arms as another snaps thick metal bracelets around both wrists. Chains hang from both, heavy and swaying as Mikey's dragged forward, his feet leaving furrows in the dirt. He's taken to the center of camp, where the ground has been turned over and a tall pole erected, a metal ring hammered in high overhead -- Gerard's nearby, deathly white, a spade lying on the ground to his side. The perfect sadistic touch.

Grabbing the chains, a guard feeds them through the ring, tugs hard until Mikey's arms are pulled up over his head, and keeps tugging, until Mikey's on his tip toes only and he feels like he's being split into pieces, his bones separated, his muscles torn. Tears flow down his face as he frantically tries for purchase, panic rearing as the guards laugh as they secure the chains, then walk away, leaving Mikey to fight and scream and finally still.

Gerard keeps watch until nightfall, then he's forced away, leaving with a mouthed I'm sorry.

He doesn't come back, nobody does and the loneliness is maybe the worst of all, when all Mikey can do is listen to the frantic beat of his heart and his own ragged breath. The clatter of his teeth as the moon rises and the icy winds whip up the dirt. It's then it would be easy to give up, when he's so cold, so done, but Mikey doesn't. He keeps on breathing, keeps on living, until finally, when the sky is blushed pink, someone appears between the huts and strides forward.

Mikey tries to tell Bob to go, forcing slurred words, but Bob keeps on coming, anger apparent in the set of his shoulders and the way he walks, like he's itching to take somebody apart.

"You're an idiot," Bob says when he's close, anger replaced by gentle concern. "You don't take on the guards like that." He reaches up and starts to unfasten the chains, shaking his head when Mikey tries to protest. "They said I could, probably worried about their fucking numbers."

His arms being lowered hurts worse than anything he's felt before and Mikey's sobbing as Bob holds on and then sits, pulling Mikey into his own lap.

"You have to stay here for now, they said a day in chains, but at least you're down." Bob's running his hand over Mikey's back, his touch gentle. "Gee's going frantic, we all were. You shouldn't have done it."

Mikey shakes his head then, the tiniest of movement because he's got no regrets, and Bob needs to know that.

"Brave bastard," Bob says, and cradles Mikey as much as he can, his body used as a human quilt. He presses a kiss to Mikey's forehead. "Next time warn us, we'll have your back."

"Promise," Mikey says, and he knows Bob hears the lie, but he says nothing, just holds on, silent as the sun rises and the camp begins to wake.


	17. Chapter 17

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Gerard draws Frank wanking.
> 
> Originally posted in 2009

Gerard grabs his sketch book and a handful of pens. He's thought about this all day, imagining angles and backgrounds, but now he feels nervous and a pen slips from his hand, clattering against the ground.

"Relax, Gee," Frank says. He's toes off his sneakers and pulls off his t-shirt, the light burnishing his skin, the dark lines of his ink surrounded by gold. "It's nothing new, you've seen it all before."

"Not like this," Gerard says, but Frank's nonchalance is relaxing, like this really is something they do every day. Gerard sits, cross legged on the floor. "Can you, your jeans, can you leave them on? Just sort of down your thighs."

Frank smiles, says, "Sure." He unfastens his belt, threading leather through the metal buckle and then pops open each button, putting on a show.

Gerard smiles in return, dips his head and clicks off the lid of a pen, opens his sketch book to a new page. "If you could, just lie back and do like always."

"Yeah." Slowly, Frank pushes down his jeans, stopping at mid-thigh, then sits on the sofa, slouched back, head, spine and legs in an elongated arc. Already he's half hard, and he lazily runs his hand over his dick, watching Gerard all of the time. "You going to talk dirty to me? Urge me on."

Gerard's attention is torn between the curve on the page and the way Frank licks down his own palm, slow and obvious. Gerard swallows, says, "I guess. What do you want me to say?"

Frank laughs and turns slightly, putting himself on display. "How about how much you want me? How you want to fuck me hard and make me scream."

"But you know all that," Gerard says, memories of Frank beneath him, mouth open and gasping for breath, blending with what he actually sees.

"So tell me again."

"I want to fuck you. I want to... erm..." Gerard trails off, caught by contrast between Frank's fingers and his dick, the bright of his tattoos against skin. He keeps watching, licks across his lips as he watches the drag of Frank's thumb, how he's causing ripples of skin that roll from base to tip. Pen tip digging into the paper, Gerard sees the slick surface, moisture beading as Frank slides his hand over the head of his dick.

"Gee, you stopped."

"Sorry, sorry." Gerard looks up, takes in how Frank's beginning to breathe hard, how his stomach moves slightly, his chest, the dips and shadows of his collar bone and the way Frank has his mouth slightly open, his cheeks flushed. "It's just, fuck you're beautiful."

"And you suck at dirty talk," Frank says, but he still digs his heels into the cushions, bracing himself as he steps up the pace and Gerard can barely keep sketching, has to force himself to keep going as he tries to capture the way Frank tilts back his head. How his eyes flutter shut as he runs his hand over his chest and pinches his own nipples, one then the other before going back down, hand splayed against his stomach.

Gerard tries to capture it all, the subtle difference in shade between Frank's hands and his body, the curve of his hand against his pubes, lines and angles and as much as he tries there's no way he can capture it all. He gives up trying, drops the sketch book and pen and crawls over the floor, kneels up and braces his hands either side of Frank's head and leans in, sharing the same breath.

Frank clutches at Gerard's back and holds on with one hand, gasps when Gerard says, "Come."


	18. Chapter 18

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bob/Mikey -- from the Sound Tracking universe.
> 
> Originally posted in 2009.

It's late when Bob wakes. Kicking aside blankets he pushes his hair out of his face and turns on his side, looking across the room toward where Frank is sitting on the edge of his bed. He's leaning forward, almost bent double, his movements clumsy as he tries to fasten his shoe, and even in this dim light it's possible to see how his eyes are shadowed, smudged deep-violet against the pale of his skin.

Despite the medication, the herbal teas that Andy brews, the hours that Gerard spends by his bed, each night Mikey ends up screaming. It's always Frank that wakes him, there with soothing words and strong arms as Mikey whimpers and fights to emerge from the nightmares that won't leave. It's Frank who peels off sodden night clothes and changes sweat-soaked sheets for the dryer-warm blankets that Pete hands over. It's Frank that whispers words of comfort, his voice a constant warmth in the dark.

It's Frank that's beyond exhausted; and Mikey knows that. It's why he's taken to slipping out of bed and wandering the house for hours. Talking to Pete or sitting reading the sub-space blogs, data pad in one hand and coffee in the other, evading sleep as a way to protect Frank. It's a plan that's already failing and Bob's head aches, the beat surrounding his crew out of sync. Still _right_ but there are notes that feel wrong. Mikey, jagged screeches of sound when he should be solid steady bass. Frank becoming muted, slowing, slowing, slowing down.

Worried, Bob stands, pads across the room and kneels by Frank and Mikey's bed. The sheets are dry tonight and the data pad they're been reading is lying abandoned on the floor, the screen a dim glow in the dark. Bob sets it to one side and rests his hand on Frank's knee, stopping him moving. "Stay here."

Frank blinks, once, twice, trying to focus. "I need to find Mikey."

"You need to sleep," Bob corrects, pushing back when Frank tries to stand. "I'll find him and make sure he's okay."

"No." Frank shakes his head and the movement makes him sway, listing to one side. Hand braced against the bed he says, "I'm fine. I'll go get him and come back and sleep."

"Don't you trust me?" It's an underhand thing to ask, Bob knows that, the same way he knows Frank's staying upright by force of will alone. "I'll look after him, promise."

For a long time Frank doesn't reply, and Bob's beginning to think he'll have to resort to more physical measures to get him to stay, then Frank sighs, says, "I can't sleep here without him."

"You don't have to."

It's no surprise to hear Gerard's awake, or that when Bob turns he sees Ray's already pulling apart the beds, throwing the gel mattresses to the middle of the room. Adding armfuls of pillows and blankets, Gerard builds a cosy nest, and all the time he's frowning, his head tilted to the side.

"He's okay," Bob says softly.

Gerard looks up, a pillow gripped to his chest. "I know. It's just... Fuck."

Bob listens, notes of overwhelming frustration prickling against his skin, but it's frustration backed by love. Strong and solid and Bob takes a moment to just _feel_ , letting the beat wash around him. The bond between Mikey and Gerard, deep and true, a steady thrum of two lives forever bound. Mikey, Frank and more distantly, Pete, their sound complicated and entwined in ways Bob hasn't begun to understand. Gerard and Ray. Ray and Bob, multiple combinations that tie together and make them crew.

Frank leans to the side, his head against Bob's shoulder. "We love you, too."

"Eavesdropper," Bob says fondly and helps Frank to his feet, steering him to the make-shift bed, then waits, watching as he settles down between Gerard and Ray.

"Tell Mikey he needs to be here," Frank says drowsily, blankets pulled up to his chin and already mostly asleep.

"Promise," Bob replies, seeing how Ray's hand is against Frank's back, how Gerard's curled in close -- keeping Frank grounded, keeping him safe.

As soon as Frank's asleep Bob leaves the room, following Mikey's beat, which by now is as familiar as Bob's own. It takes seconds to locate Mikey's position, and also Pete, as always remaining close in case he's needed. Taking a moment Bob slips into the kitchen, where Pete's sitting at the counter, an empty coffee mug at his side and at least five data pads stacked in a pile. There's also one activated and showing an old picture of Pete smiling wide, a shocking contrast to the Pete of now, who's carrying the weight of the universe on his shoulders.

"Mikey's outside," Pete says, and looks up briefly before going back to updating his blog.

Bob steps further into the room. "You should go to bed."

Pete keeps typing. "What do you think of, _stars sing and boys dance, darkness fights back against suffocated hearts_?"

"I think you're going to get a record number of comments asking if you're alright," Bob says, watching as Pete hits send.

Pete stretches, his shirt hitching up to show the patterns he's got inked into his skin. "I've a raid to organise." He slips from the stool and gathers the data pads. "If you need anything..."

"I know where you are," Bob says, and then makes his way outside, where Mikey's lying on the grass, looking through the bubble to the stars that shine bright.

"Mikey." Bob eases to the ground and then onto his back, the grass tickling his neck and arms. He doesn't ask if Mikey's alright, that answer is obvious, but he does point at a distant star, one made distinctive by its reddish tinge. "Hixnech. I travelled there once, Bert paid for dinner and ended up ordering exploding shackel slurps. Jepha didn't talk to him for days."

Mikey looks where Bob's pointing, says, "He didn't like them?"

Bob grins, remembering Jepha's shrieks of rage. "He liked them too much. He ate so many he burnt holes through the seats of five pairs of pants. I was applying cream to his ass for a week."

Mikey keeps looking up, his hair ruffling in the soft artificial breeze. "You don't talk about them much."

"I don't need to," Bob says, turning and resting on one elbow so he can look fully at Mikey. "I've got their memories, those don't fade."

"I wish mine would," Mikey says tonelessly, his words hushed. "I close my eyes and they're there. I remember everything, the sounds, the smells, the feels of their hands and tongues."

It's not the first time Bob's heard this, but it's always been second-hand, overheard conversations in the dead of night. This is different and Mikey's beat is layered with guilt and self-loathing, hidden under the sharp top notes of fear. Bob wants to tell Mikey it wasn't his fault, that he survived and that makes him strong, but that's not what Mikey needs. Not right now. Reaching out, Bob takes Mikey's hand in his own, holding on as he rests their hands against his own chest, says, "Listen."

Giving himself to the beat, Bob picks up the rhythm, the sound of life that surrounds them. He pictures the ribbons of sound that hurtle skywards and into space. Routes for crafts that travel the universe, for home-comings and escapes. It's Bob's world, one of sound and feel and guiding lights, and right now Mikey's beside him. Safe by Bob's side as they both listen.


	19. Chapter 19

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mikey/Ryan -- telepathic soul bonding
> 
> Originally posted in

"Tell me!"

Ryan spits and slumps forward, his hands impacting against the metal floor. His fingers are tacky with his own blood and he splays them wide, his arms shaking as he spits again.

"I know you know where they are. Tell me!"

The kick is expected. It lands against Ryan's ribs and he gasps for breath, pulling in air past his swollen mouth. He can feel a tear slide down his face and it drips from his nose. Ryan watches it land, one tear in a pool of blood, saliva and bile.

"I will kill you if you don't tell me!"

It's not an idle threat. Ryan knows his death is near, it's creeping closer with each denial, each defiant look. It's terrifying in its proximity but still Ryan pushes himself upright, straightens his shoulders and lifts his chin, says, "I don't know where they are, and if I did I wouldn't tell you."

The kick is harder this time and Ryan feels something snap inside. He goes down and the floor is cold against his cheek, the guard's boots black and shining, a smear of blood on the toe. The guard steps closer and aims his gun -- Ryan's never been so terrified in his life.

"Tell me."

"No," Ryan hisses back and forces himself onto his knees. It hurts, _everything_ hurts and Ryan's struggling to hold on, but he will, he has to, because Mikey's coming. Ryan can feel him.

The guard pulls back his finger and powers up his gun, sparks crackling as he sneers, "You give yourself for nothing. We will find them without you."

"You're so fucking dumb you couldn't find your own dick," Ryan says, and his pain is diminishing, still there but muted and all he can think is, _Mikey Mikey Mikey_. Ryan can feel him coming closer, reaching out until suddenly, a part of Ryan that was wrenched apart becomes whole. Ryan throws himself down as the door behind the guard explodes in a shower of metal and smoke. Lying still he blinks away tears and reaches out when he sees someone approach.

"What have I told you about antagonising people?"

"He deserved it," Ryan says, choking on his own blood until he's gently lifted up and cradled against Mikey's chest. "They're after Gerard."

"I know," Mikey says, and presses a kiss against Ryan's forehead. "He's safe, I came with Spencer and Bob."

Exhausted, Ryan lies heavily against Mikey, feeling how tense he is, how Mikey's breathing hard as he holds on. Ryan turns his head, resting it against Mikey's. "You have to stop leeching."

"I know," Mikey says softly, then adds, "Sorry."

The pain crashes back, almost overwhelming and Ryan can't help but whimper as he's laid on the floor. Standing, Mikey crouches and scoops up Ryan, and this should be humiliating but Ryan's hurting too much to care. All he can do is hold on, listening in as Mikey projects, love, love, safe.


	20. Chapter 20

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bob centric wingfic
> 
> Originally posted in 2010

_Bob holds the note between two fingers. It feels dusty and the thick parchment is laced with the scent of sugar and smoke. He exhales slowly and leans against the bus, sun-warm metal at his back and nipped-off cigarette butts at his feet. Bob reads the note again, _new assignment, be ready, you'll know when_. No matter how often he reads it makes no sense, Bob thought he was doing okay, he was doing his job -- but apparently the above don't agree._

_There's a thump from inside the bus, the sound of Bert's giggle and Jepha's sleepy protest; then finally, complete silence. Bob waits, staring at nothing, then stands up straight and unfurls his wings, the ever present ache in his back easing as bones realign and muscles stretch. He holds up the note, taking a last look at the curved letters that look more like burns than ink, then opens his hand. The note burning as it flutters to the ground._

Mikey sits on the floor, his knees drawn up and glasses slipped to the end of his nose.

"Mikey," Bob says. His back is itching, his head aching with the need to put things right.

Mikey's t-shirt is stained, his pants dirty at the bottom, there's a pink band around his wrist and his feet are bare. He doesn't look up and his face is concealed by his hair. Bob's every instinct is to fix him, the need so powerful Bob can feel his wings flutter involuntary, sharp-tipped feathers brushing against his skin.

"Hey," Mikey says finally, and his voice is rough, that one word so heavy with exhaustion that Bob wants to kick and yell at the heavens, that how can this be fair? How can they send him here when he's doing no good?

Bob fills a glass with water and drinks the lot in one go. Rinses out the glass and puts it on the drainer, snug against coffee mugs with stained interiors and a plate covered with mould. Bob knows he should go. This isn't his bus, this isn't his place -- not yet. "I'll see you...."

"It's getting worse," Mikey says quietly and Bob presses his hand against the sink, feels soap scum under his fingers. He thinks of favours he could call in, the repercussions if he throws himself at the feet of Fate. Mikey looks up then, expression set against pressed back fear. "There's marshmallows hidden in the top cupboard. Ray thinks I don't know."

"I like the way you think." Bob reaches up and his shoulder blades burn, his wings a heavy, leaden weight. He grabs the marshmallows and slides down next to Mikey, the bag open between them.

Mikey bites a marshmallow in half and eats one side. He keeps hold of the other and says, "I don't want to do this without him."

"I know," Bob says in reply.

Later, when Mikey sleeps, his mouth open slightly and a marshmallow clenched in his hand, Bob pulls off his own hoodie. Listens intently before unfolding his wings, one crumpled against the couch the other covering Mikey. Keeping him safe, keeping him warm.

_"I hate you all," Bob yells._

_It's dark in the field, the buses nothing but small lights on the horizon. Bob's feet are soaking and he's breathing heavily as he tugs off his hoodie, throwing it to the ground. He spreads his wings to their full width, uncaring of the pain in his spine, the way his skin pulls and tugs._

_"Why give me this and nothing else? Let me come back, let me talk to people who can actually fucking help."_

_No one replies._

_Bob never expected they would._

Frank says he's leaving after yet another pointless practice.

"I can't. I'm done."

It's not a threat. It's Frank finally beaten down, anger replaced by painful inevitability as he watches his life crumble. He's pale, eyes red-rimmed, the weight of the world on his shoulders as he sets down his guitar and walks.

Bob shifts his wings, tucks them flat against his back as he stands at the sound desk, looking toward the stage. Already Ray's at the riser, yelling louder with each indifferent answer from Matt while Mikey's steering Gerard, holding him upright while watching Frank leave.

"I've got this," Bob says, and Mikey nods slightly, stony-faced when Gerard laughs and stumbles, smacking a kiss against Mikey's cheek. Bob hates to leave them, but he's got other issues right now, and he hurries after Frank. Thankfully he hasn't gone far.

"I meant what I said," Franks says. He's trying to light a cigarette but his lighter won't catch. Once. Twice. Three times, and Frank throws it to the ground. "Fuck, nothing's going right." Bob takes out his own lighter and holds it up, but Frank shakes his head. "I don't even want a smoke, not really."

Bob puts the lighter back in his pocket and shrugs. "Your call."

Frank huffs out a sound, less laughter than hysterical desperation. "You're missing your cue, you're supposed to ask what I do want."

"I know what you want, and I can't get it for you." It's the truth, Bob's tried, but his favours mean nothing and Fate is a bitch.

Frank looks up, says, "So what? You're just going to stand there and say nothing?"

"No," Bob says, and takes a step closer. He pulls Frank into a hug, holding him close. "Don't ever mention this again."

"Showing your soft side, Bob?" Frank says, his breath hitching. He holds on, arms wrapped around Bob's waist, his hands against Bob's back, his fingers pressing into the feathers.

For the first time in weeks the pain in Bob's back is eased.

_Bob's hoodie is on the bed, his t-shirt thrown over a chair, while Bob himself stands in front of the floor-length window. From this high Bob can see the whole city and he unfolds his wings and slowly flaps them both. Papers rustle on the table and golden tipped feathers are reflected in the mirror as Bob flaps harder. He's felt restless lately, pulled more toward the above. He wants to force open the window and jump. He wants to break through the pain and fly._

"I saw," Ray says.

Bob's sitting on his couch. He's wearing sweat pants and an old hoodie and the cushion beside him is cluttered with remotes, phones and an assortment of magazines. Not that Bob's read them, he spends most of his time sleeping, the only respite from the pain in his leg and his back. He yawns and rubs at his eyes. "Saw what?"

"Your back," Ray says and Bob's shocked into silence, trying to work out what to say as Ray keeps talking, his words fast. "Before you went to the hospital and that weird doctor took you away. I saw them, the wings."

"You're imagining things," Bob says, and fear is twisting in his belly as he imagines being taken away, because this isn't supposed to happen. No one's supposed to know.

"I saw," Ray insists, he sits on the opposite edge of the couch, his knee bent as he sits to the side, looking at Bob. "I'm not stupid. I was there and I saw them. They're beautiful."

"They're burnt," Bob says shortly. He steels himself, sure he's about to be pulled away but there's nothing. Just the quiet of the room, the drone of a mower from outside, the creak of the couch as Ray shifts forward.

"Some of them are burnt, but they're still beautiful." Ray swallows, says, "The shoot?"

Bob remembers fire, the intense heat against his back and smell of scorching feathers and skin. The way he kept drumming despite the pain, a living barrier between the others and the flames. Bob nods, says, "Yeah."

"Right," Ray says, and reaches out before dropping his hand. "Doesn't it hurt? Keeping them hidden like that."

Bob slumps to the side, resting on one elbow, suppressing a grimace at the pull of his spine. "It's not that bad."

"Of course it's not," Ray says, obviously not believing a word. "Does it help if you unfold them?"

The truth is, it helps a lot. Bob's wings are big and his muscles constantly ache from keeping them close to his body. He nods, says tersely, "Yeah."

"Then do it." Ray sits back and looks past Bob to the door. "I'll keep watch."

"I don't...." Bob trails off. More than anything he wants to spread his wings, but he's never shown anyone before, not like this. It feels wrong, exposing a part of himself that shouldn't be seen. "I've never shown anyone before."

"I'll look the other way if you want."

And Ray would, it's why Bob makes the sudden decision to sit forward and slowly pull off his hoodie, glancing over at Ray before opening his wings. They stretch across the couch, the golden edges darkened and ragged in places. To Bob they look hideous, but Ray looks awed, remaining still as feathers brush over his lap.

He looks over at Bob, says simply, "Thank you."

_The note is lying on his pillow and Bob grips the edge of his bunk, needing the support. A glance behind him and he climbs into the small space, breath catching at the smell of burnt sugar. Tugging along the curtains he sits, bent forward and legs crossed, his chest already aching as he picks up the note._

_All his fears come crashing home as he reads._

__It's nearly time. _Words that are burnt into his brain._

_Stunned, Bob sits on his bed, the note crumpled beside him._

_He doesn't want to go. Not now. Not when things are finally okay._

"This sucks."

Gerard's lying on the floor of the bus, arm against his forehead and cheeks flushed red. It's hot outside and even hotter in here, the air conditioning struggling to cope. Bob pulls at his shirt, hoping for cool air. It's a futile hope and he lets his shirt drop back down, the material sticking to his sweat-damp skin.

"Do you...I mean, fuck." Gerard pushes himself upright, brushing off the popcorn that's got stuck to his hair. "You have to be hot and I know you won't take off your shirt here, but I could make you something. If you want. For your wings, a hole in a shirt."

Bob lets his head thump against the window, says, "Fucking Ray."

"What? No." Gerard shakes his head and crawls toward Bob. "Mikey told me."

Surprised, Bob sits upright, looking down at Gerard. "Ray told Mikey?"

"No, Mikey's known for ages. Since that night on the bus, when you covered him with your wings."

"That was years ago," Bob says, and the pain in his back radiates out to his whole body. "He can't have known that long."

Gerard pulls himself up onto the couch and pats Bob's leg. "He did."

"And he never said anything? _You_ didn't say anything?"

Again Gerard shakes his head. "I didn't know until a few months ago. You started to move differently, looser. I saw then."

When he told Ray, it has to be. Bob frowns, says, "I suppose Frank knows, too."

"Of course I fucking know." Frank yells from the bunks, then appears in the doorway wearing only a pair of shorts. "I said you were soft."

"Soft in the fucking head," Bob mutters, and looks past Frank, unsurprised to see Mikey and Ray crowded behind him. "So you all knew. Why didn't you say?"

"Wasn't our thing to say," Mikey says, pushing his way past Frank and throwing himself into the tiny space between Gerard and Bob. "If you wanted to show them you would."

"We're respectful of your choices." Gerard peers past Mikey, gaze slipping toward Bob's back. "But if you did want to show us...."

"Fuck that," Frank says, taking the spot on Bob's other side. "I want to know if you can fly."

"And if you can carry passengers," Gerard adds, and despite the still constant ache, the pain of stretched muscles and bone, all Bob can do is smile.

 _Bob finds the final note on a sunny afternoon. It's tucked inside his bag, resting on a tangle of striped socks and when he picks it up he can hardly make himself breathe. Parchment unrolled, all the note says is,_ With acceptance comes responsibility. Now they're all yours. __

_Bob closes his eyes, looks up and says softly, "Thank you."_

"They're beautiful."

Bob stands still as Gerard walks in a circle, taking in every detail of Bob's wings. They're back to their best now, glossy and dark and Bob holds them out to their full size, feathers fluttering in the slight breeze.

"Does it hurt?" Mikey asks, his touch gentle as he rests his finger tips against the spot where the shafts join Bob's back. The skin there is stretched, pulled tight and warm.

"Sometimes," Bob says, meaning always. But right now it's eased, the pain diluted by the proximity of friends.

Ray steps forward, brow creased as he says, "Be careful of the wires and trees."

Bob smiles slightly. "I will." Then runs forward while flapping his wings.

The cheers of his friends urging him on, Bob flies.


	21. Chapter 21

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Brendon/Jon -- post apoc
> 
> Originally posted 2010

"I want pizza," Brendon says. "Pizza with everything on it. And beer. Two beers with vodka chasers."

Brendon's sitting on the floor, his knees drawn up close to his chest. His body is striped with light that beam between the boards on the window, white slices over his cheeks and nose, his chest, his hands where they're clasped together.

"That would be good," Jon says. He holds up his hand, interrupting a sunbeam, seeing how his fingers are bleached out and Brendon's face cast in shadow.

Brendon blinks and rests his head on his knees, his eyes half-lidded.

Jon drops his hand and rolls onto his front, onto his hands and knees. He crawls, bare toes dragging over the gritty carpet and sits next to Brendon. "Cats are natural hunters."

"I read that." Brendon's reply is muffled, then he looks to the side, nodding as he peers at Jon. "They'll be okay." He swallows and licks at his lips, tongue sliding over chapped skin. "We could hunt."

"We could hunt pizza." Jon leans to the side, knowing Brendon will hold him steady. "I could make nets out of the sheets."

"Or a spear, I could sharpen the curtain rail." Brendon starts to smile, then stops, blood welling at the corner of his mouth. Jon reaches up and wipes it away with his thumb.

"We'll hunt chapstick, too."

"Chapstick's wily, we'll need to bring out the big guns." Brendon licks at his lips again, says, "The other guests. They're leaving tonight."

Jon brings up his own knees, clenching his hands to stop them shaking. Sweat trickles down his back and he knows it's getting hotter. "I don't..."

Brendon's hand is dirty and his knuckles are still swollen and skinned. He wraps his fingers around Jon's wrist. "We don't have to go."

"We can't stay here." Jon looks down at their hands and then up. Brendon's cheekbones are pronounced, his hair slicked back from his face. It's Brendon stripped back, years older in a matter of weeks. Jon swallows his grief, says, "Going alone is a risk."

"So's going in a group," Brendon replies. He tightens his hold on Jon's wrist, gaze sliding to the cell phones that are lying on the dresser. "We could find someplace with power, recharge the batteries."

Jon nods, remembering the last message he received. _C U at 8 lsers_ , laughing as he read it in bed, Brendon draped over him, heavy and sated. "They could have sent a text. Before. Or found a working network."

"Yeah," Brendon says, and then repeats, his expression fierce. "Yeah, they could have." He turns toward Jon and leans in close for a kiss, and even if Brendon has changed physically, this hasn't. The soft sound he makes as their tongues touch, the way in these moments Brendon gives everything to Jon, heart and body and soul. Brendon pulls back, and there's blood smeared over his lip. He makes no move to wipe it away, just sits still, striped by that too bright light. "We''ll go alone. We'll find them."

"Okay," Jon says softly. "We'll find them." 


	22. Chapter 22

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mikey turns into a unicorn
> 
> Originally posted 2010

Furtively, Gerard peers around the front of the bus. When he's sure there's no one around he quickly darts around the corner and punches in the code, the door opening with a soft hiss. Climbing to the second step, Gerard listens as he cranes his neck and takes in the dark-screened TVs and empty couches, the silence that means no one is there. Relieved, Gerard jumps back to the ground.

"Mikey, come on," Gerard hisses, his eyes widening when Mikey appears from behind a white plastic chair. "You thought hiding behind a lawn chair was a good idea? Seriously?"

Mikey gives Gerard an unimpressed stare. "You didn't see me."

"That's not the point." Gerard looks around, says, "Get inside."

Mikey snorts, his horn gleaming silver as he gallops past Gerard and bends one leg, his hoof landing on the step with a dull clump. "I'm going. This isn't easy."

"That's why you don't change on tour," Gerard says as he steps forward and pushes at Mikey's flank, trying to shove him up the steps. Which feels like an impossible task, because the stairwell is narrow and right now, Mikey is wide. He's also having trouble with co-ordination and a silvery back hoof barely misses Gerard's nose. Finally, after a lot of shoving, Mikey's clip-clopping into the lounge.

"I didn't do it on purpose," Mikey says then, and he flicks his tail, causing silvery flecks to cloud in the air. "It's the fans, the place is full of fucking virgins."

Gerard collapses down on the nearest couch and tucks up his feet. "There're always virgins at shows, it doesn't normally make you change, and don't talk about fucking and virgins together. It doesn't sound right."

"Fuck virgins." Abruptly, Mikey looks over his shoulder and his horn catches a coffee mug sending it flying through the air. It lands with a crash, and cold coffee is splatted along the wall. Mikey pricks up his ears and tilts his head slightly to the side. "It looks like arterial spray with coffee."

Gerard considers, noticing how the initial splattered drops are starting to ooze downwards, causing dark trails. "There'd be more volume for a jugular slash. You...." He stops talking then, turning to glare at Mikey. "Stop with the distractions. Why did you change?"

Mikey's horn gleams as he says, "I told you. It's the virgins, they kept getting closer."

"So you changed?"

"I had no choice." Mikey takes a step forward, his velvety nose against Gerard's lap. "I signed this girl's arm and she went in for a hug. Next thing I know I'm starting to change."

"Sucks to be you." Gerard rubs Mikey's neck, enjoying the feel of the soft hair under his fingers. "You'll need to change back. You can't perform as a unicorn."

Mikey sighs, warm air flowing over Gerard's thigh. "I couldn't play anyway, I've no apposable thumbs." He sighs again. "Why couldn't I have been something awesome? Like a dragon. But no, I get to be a fucking unicorn."

Gerard grins and runs his thumb over the base of Mikey's horn. "That's because you're so pure."

"Fuck pure," Mikey says and pulls back his head so he can jab Gerard in the belly with his horn. "I haven't been pure for years."

"So you say." Gerard grins even wider, then sneezes when he inhales the silvery dust that's floating in the air. "Quit with the glitter, it's starting to look like a pimped out grotto in here."

Mikey stops flicking his tail and the silver sparkles start to settle as he mutters, "Couldn't even be a black unicorn, fucking silver."

"Unicorns can't be black, black's not a pure colour," Gerard says as he wipes at his arms. "And you need to change back."

"And silver is?" Mikey steps back, the TV remote crunching under a hoof. "And I can't change back. It's too soon."

Gerard rests his head on his hands. It's been a few months since he's seen Mikey like this, back in Jersey when Mikey was happy to hang out watching TV when he changed. "Last time you changed back in an hour."

"Last time I wasn't saturated with the hormones of multiple virgins. And you don't help," Mikey says, fixing Gerard with a look. "Every time you and Frankie kiss on stage it's like being hit by an atom bomb of unfulfilled sexual desire. You're lucky I haven't changed on the spot."

"You never said," Gerard says.

"What was I supposed to say? Hey Frank, could you not kiss my brother because there's a good chance I'll turn into a fucking unicorn."

Gerard slumps back down, feeling exhausted. "Something like that. Or else you tell them the truth."

Mikey shakes his head, his mane flying and yet more silver flying in the air. "We agreed not to."

"I know," Gerard says, his stomach sinking as he glances out of the window. "But I think it's time. Especially as they're about to walk in."

"What?!" Agitated, Mikey's hair seems to stand on end and the air shimmers with silver. "Fuck."

"They'll be fine," Gerard says, and he stands, his hand on Mikey's back. "And if they're not I'll fucking take them down."

Mikey bumps his flank against Gerard. Together they watch the door.


	23. Chapter 23

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ryan/Jon -- Coma, imagination
> 
> Originally written for anonlovefest in 2010.

"I watered your stupid plant," Jon says. He's perched on the edge of the seat and the wooden arm rest digs into his thigh. "I gave it food, too. The stuff in the yellow box. One scoopful, yeah?"

Rationally Jon doesn't expect a reply -- not really. He still pauses, filling in the blanks when the silence stretches that touch too long.

"I felt the soil so no bitching about over-watering." Jon rubs his fingers together, remembering damp soil clinging to his skin. "It'll need re-potting soon, the thing's huge." Jon smiles then, his mouth curling at one side. "Like, really huge. I don't want to burst your horticultural bubble but I don't think it's a crocus. Or if it is it's a fucking mutant crocus."

Jon imagines an indignant reply, Ryan's frown, the inevitable discussion about mutant plants. Jon's smile widens.

"Just so you know. If I get my brain sucked out by a mutant triffid I'll haunt you forever."

The hum of machines, soft beeping, footsteps and muffled voices beyond the thin walls. Jon rubs at his eyes, his smile fading as he leans forward. Elbows against the bed he takes hold of Ryan's hand, linking their fingers together.

"I cleaned out the fridge this morning..." Jon hesitates a moment then corrects. "Well, last night. Infomercials are no fun to watch alone."

Ryan's hand is lax, his fingers cool, half-healed grazes over his knuckles. Jon tightens his grip. "The meatloaf was on the verge of sentience. I sent a picture to Spencer. He says he'll be back tomorrow."

Jon looks at the balloons in the corner. The one from Spencer is bright pink with a blue ribbon. It's started to deflate now, the sides crumpling inwards. "I told him I wasn't going to eat it but he's still coming. Him and Brendon. They can have our bed. I'll sleep on the couch."

Or try to sleep.

Lately Jon's been too familiar with the soft light of pre-dawn.

"The TIVO's about full." Jon reaches out and pulls the rolling table toward him. One handed he dampens a cloth with cool water. "I'm going to phone them, up our subscription."

Gently, Jon runs the cloth over Ryan's mouth, careful of the tubes and tape. He puts the cloth back on the table and then reaches out, brushing back Ryan's hair. It feels brittle, still flecked with dried blood.

"It's that or delete some of your shit."

Silence. That painful moment without a response. Jon's breath catches in his throat as he takes in Ryan's grey pallor, the bandages around his head and chest, the lines and drains that snake from under white sheets.

Jon thinks about endless days and nights spent alone. His bass put aside and a closet full of clothes that'll never get worn. Jon thinks about a life without Ryan.

"I can't do this." Jon's chest is tight and he looks down at their joined hands as he repeats. "I can't do this."

Except, Jon knows that he can. He has to.

"Okay, fine. No bitching. I know being melodramatic is your job." Jon wipes at his eyes and takes a deep breath. "But just because I can doesn't mean I want to."

Jon runs his thumb over Ryan's hand, says softly. "You need to wake up now. Please."


	24. Chapter 24

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Frank/Mikey -- Frank has a broken leg
> 
> Originally written in 2010

Jamia opens the door before Mikey even gets the chance to knock. She’s already wearing her coat and pulls on a pink woollen hat as Mikey kicks his boots against the step, knocking off the snow.

“He’s already eaten,” Jamia says, wrapping a pink and black striped scarf around her neck. “He needs to take his meds in an hour, don’t let him say he doesn’t need them.”

“Okay.” Mikey comes inside, standing on the skull-print welcome mat as Jamia pulls on mittens and grabs her purse.

“I shouldn’t be long, it’s just...” She trails off and rubs a mittened hand against her face. “I love him but he’s driving me insane.”

“You should have doped him with something,” Mikey says, and smiles when Jamia laughs, her cheeks rounding under the layers of scarf.

“I considered it.” She looks toward the stairs then moves forward, stretching up and pressing a kiss against Mikey’s cheek. “Thanks.”

Mikey smiles again and starts to take off his coat. “Go, we’ll be fine.”

Jamia steps outside and snowflakes settle on her shoulders and hat, glistening as she looks at Mikey. “I’m sure you will be. I’ll knock when I come back.” She grins then, adds, “Or maybe I won’t.”

Coat fully off, Mikey hangs it on the stand, looking over his shoulder at Jamia. “It’s your house, no knocking.”

It should be impossible, but Jamia’s grin widens even further, her eyes bright under the woollen line of her hat. “Shameless.”

Mikey shrugs, hiding his own smile. “He’s in the master bedroom?”

“It was that or the basement,” Jamia says, taking out her car keys. “But yeah.”

“I’d better go up.” Mikey wiggles his fingers at Jamia and starts to close the door, then stops at a series of rhythmic thumps from upstairs. “Is that....”

“Yeah,” Jamia says, opening her car door. She looks back at Mikey. “Good luck.”

~~~~

Mikey finds Frank in the master bedroom. He’s lying on his side, pillows scattered at the bottom of the bed, looking amused as he bangs one of his crutches against the floor. When he sees Mikey Frank’s mouth turns down as he scowls and uses his crutch to point. “You left me alone. I could have rolled off the bed and broken my other leg.”

“You’ve been alone for five minutes,” Mikey points out, walking into the room. He settles on the side of the bed away from Frank’s purple casted leg. “And you’re not an invalid, you’re allowed to walk with your crutches.”

Frank flops onto his back, sighing and looking pathetic. “Jamia made me stay here.”

Mikey raises an eyebrow and stares at Frank. “Why?”

Mouth twitching at one corner, Frank says, “Because she’s mean and doesn’t understand the depths of my pain.”

“Really?” Mikey asks. “It’s not because you were playing baseball with your crutch and Mama’s ball?”

Frank sighs again, long and tragic. “It’s no fun if she tells you everything, and I only broke one vase.”

Mikey tries to be stern, reminding himself that Frank’s got a broken leg and shouldn’t be running around playing baseball indoors, but the facts are, crutch baseball sounds fucking cool. Going for a halfway measure he adopts ‘press pictures expression one’ TM Gerard , asks, “Did you get a home run?”

Frank shakes his head. “I tripped over Peppers, it’s how I broke the vase.”

“Tragic,” Mikey says, and doesn’t even laugh when Frank gives him a suspicious look.

“Fucking traitor, I know you’re laughing inside.”

Mikey looks levelly at Frank. “Wrong, I’m weeping inside. You just can’t see it.”

“Ray wouldn’t laugh at me,” Frank says, and attempts to kick at Mikey, his bare toes impacting against Mikey’s thigh. “ _Fuck_.”

“Idiot,” Mikey says, and starts gathering the scattered pillows, heaping them in a long pile. “Put your leg there and lie still.”

Frank does, hissing in a breath as he curls his hands into fists. “Entertain me.”

Mikey takes in how Frank’s gone pale, how his eyes are screwed shut, and knows it’s a real request, one made in a need for a distraction and not any amusement value. It’s why Mikey says, “A man walked into a house. Ouch.”

Frank opens one eye. “That’s it?”

“Fucking demanding,” Mikey says, but remembers something he’d read the night before. “Three drunks are standing on top of the Empire State Building. The first one says to the other two, it's a funny thing about these wind currents. You could jump off of this building right now and not hit the ground; the wind would carry you right back up. The second drunk says, You're nuts. The first drunk says, I'm serious. Watch. So the first drunk jumps off of the fucking building, and the wind carries him right back up to the top.The second drunk says, let me try and leaps off the building and falls to the sidewalk, internal organs splattering everywhere, blood gushing like a fountain. The first drunk laughs and the third drunk looks at him and says, you know, Superman, you can be a real bastard when you're drunk."

“Better,” Frank says, relaxing slightly, both of his eyes open as he looks at Mikey. “Tell me another, but down here.”

“I don’t know any more,” Mikey says, folding forward so he can unlace his boots. “That’s it.”

Frank snorts dismissively. “Bob would know more jokes.”

Which is probably true, but all Mikey does is pull off his boots, letting them thud to the floor, then lies alongside Frank, sharing his pillow. He stares, taking in the lines at the corner of Frank’s eyes, the dark shadows and how Frank’s bottom lip is bitten and dry. Upping his distraction technique, Mikey says, “Would Bob do this?”

Mikey rests his hand on the front of Frank’s pajama bottoms, palm over his dick. He doesn’t move his hand, just remains still as Frank swallows and uses his good leg to thrust up the tiniest amount, as if unable to help himself as he says, “He might.”

“Yeah?” Mikey says, and curls his fingers over the waistband of the pajamas, his fingertips brushing against skin. “Bob would jerk you off? Wrap his hand around your dick, his strong, calloused drummer’s hands?”

“Yes,” Frank gasps out, obviously turned on.

“Stay still,” Mikey commands, directly in Frank’s ear. Pressing the heel of his palm against Frank’s dick, Mikey nips at his earlobe. “So you’re telling me that Bob would come here, lie on your bed and touch you like this?” Again, Frank thrusts up but Mikey doesn’t move his hand, trapping Frank against the bed. “I said, still.”

Punctuating that with another nip at Frank’s earlobe, Mikey keeps talking. “Or do you want him to do more, Frankie? Do you want him to fuck you with his fingers and tongue? For him to hold your legs apart as he licks until you’re slick and sloppy, spit soaked so he can add fingers, maybe his thumbs.”

Frank whimpers low in his throat and his eyes flutter closed, colour staining his pale cheeks. Mikey presses the advantage, keeping Frank still while breaking him apart with words.

“Or do you want to wait until you can wrap your legs around his back? Cling on as he fucks you so hard that all you can do is lie there and take it. You want that don’t you? Bob fucking you, making you hold onto the headboard and try to bite back your screams.”

Frank tries to arch his back, his head pushed into the pillow and mouth open, his voice rough when he says, “Mikey, _please_.”

Mikey delivers his killer blow, licks along Frank’s jawline and then says, “You want him to fuck you with Jamia watching, for her to be there as you scream into her mouth, for her to be there when Bob pulls out, joining her hand with his, pushing their fingers into you when you’re slick and fucked open.”

Frank moans, gasps, “Jesus, fuck,” and the crotch of his pajama’s darkening under Mikey’s fingers. Breathing hard, Frank opens his eyes and turns his head, looking at Mikey. “Bastard.”

“I was entertaining you,” Mikey says simply, and kisses Frank on the mouth. “And for my encore you get to watch.”

Hands going to his belt, Mikey lies on his back.


	25. Chapter 25

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mikey -- set when we were still being teased with killjoys info and hadn't actually seen any of the videos.
> 
> Originally posted in 2010.

Mikey lowers himself to the ground, back against a shredded tyre and sand under his feet. There’s always fucking sand, it chafes beneath his clothes and sticks to his teeth. When he spits his saliva is gritty and his skin constantly sore, pulled tight and red against his bones.

He hates the fucking sand, and the fucking sun, and this whole fucking world where all he can do is keep running, picking up shit and selling it to those too stupid to realise what he’s doing. Mikey’s good at selling, he never used to be but now he assesses the situation and goes in for the kill, tells poison-tipped lies and wears a shark’s smile as he sells with one hand and takes with the other.

He never slows, talks in quick fire bursts, shoulders hunched and hands clenched against the urge to claw at this new skin, through sinew and bone and flesh, black blood spreading against white-washed sand and sun-bleached stones.

Mikey’s going to do that one day. It’s just a case of when.

Not tonight though. Tonight Mikey’s celebrating, his thirtieth year around the sun.

Twenty nine years, three hundred and sixty four days, twenty three hours, fifty nine minutes. Mikey looks at his watch, the second hand ticking forward. There’s a glass bottle at his side and he thumbs off the top, holds the bottle in one hand and stares into the distance. At a blood-red horizon and a sky made even darker with smoke.

Fires rage in the north quadrant and Mikey’ll walk there tomorrow, claim things that aren’t his and wear his fake smile. _How much will you give me for this amazing piece of shit? Highest offer gets it, fuck you very much._ And they’ll fall for it. They always do.

But that’s tomorrow. Tonight Mikey brings the bottle to his lips, tips back his head and swallows, flames burning his throat as he marks a new day.

Tears sting his eyes and he rubs a grimy hand over his mouth, sand grating as he holds out the bottle and breathes through the pain in his chest, making a wish on stars that he can’t see.

I wish. I wish. I wish.

Mikey doesn’t know what to wish. There’s too much he misses. Too much he needs, and nothing he wants will come true.

Except.

There’s a rustle. A soft whistle, and Mikey drops the bottle, liquid drawn down into the sand. His hands are shaking and he tucks them under his legs -- which is stupid, because if it’s not.... if it’s not there’s no way Mikey will get to his gun in time -- and stares into the darkness.

Another whistle, a darker shadow moving forward, and then, “Mikey.”

Gerard’s dressed in a battered leather jacket, his hair a tangled mess. There’s a filthy bandage wrapped around one of his hands and he’s got a gun strapped to one thigh. He’s also smiling. A real smile that only brightens as Mikey scrambles to his feet and Gerard says, “Happy birthday, Mikes. I told you I’d come.”


	26. Chapter 26

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ray/Brian in tints verse
> 
> Originally posted 2010

"Okay, that's it!" Ray yells, the bowl of popcorn and M&Ms upending when he sits abruptly forward. "These people are fucking amateurs, that's a Clematis armandii, it needs alkaline soil and shady roots. It'll die where they've planted it."

Picking up an M&M that's wedged between the couch cushions, Brian pops it in his mouth and tries not to laugh. "But it looks good."

"Looks good!" Snatching the remote from Brian, Ray points it at the TV, freezing the scene. "Look at that soil and the positioning, that bed's in direct sunlight. The roots will fry."

"I don't think things can fry underground," Brian says, his mouth twitching. "It's not like it matters anyway. It's just a plant."

"Just a plant!" Ray bristles, even his hair seemingly gaining an extra inch in volume. "That's like saying you're just a man."

"Hold on," Brian says, cutting off Ray's tirade. "Are you comparing me to a clematis?"

"A Clematis armandii," Ray says, and Brian forces a frown, enjoying the way Ray's cheeks are flushed and his eyes glisten as he looks from the TV to Brian. "Which don't like heat on their roots."

"They're spindly," Brian says flatly. "If I have to be a plant I want to be a kick ass plant, something with thorns."

Ray gives Brian a long look, until finally his mouth begins to curl into a smile. "Okay, fine, you're a thistle. Happy?"

"Perfectly," Brian says, and takes back the control. He hits play and picks up a handful of popcorn, throwing it into his mouth and chewing as they watch the people on screen roll out turf. "Nice grass."

"It'll be dead within weeks," Ray says, his shoulders stiffening again as he glares at the TV. "What kind of idiot would put down turf out of season? Sure it looks good now but what about in a month when it's a frizzled, brown mess."

Brian pats Ray's back, says mock serious, "There, there. It'll all be okay."

Ray slumps back, trapping Brian's hand. "Piss taking bastard."

"You know it," Brian says, unrepentant. Worming his hand down he pushes his fingertips under the waistband of Ray's pants. "How about I make it up to you?"

Ray clicks off the TV.


	27. Chapter 27

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Frank/Mikey -- killjoys getting married with ugly tattoos.
> 
> Originally posted 2010

They've been back for all of a minute when Gerard sees the new ink.

He would have seen earlier, but it's Frank who shrugs off his jacket first, groaning theatrically as folds to the ground, like it's too much effort to remain standing. Head in his hands he groans again, and Gerard turns, planning to get a can of kibble and wave it under Frank's nose.

First though, he claps his hands next to Mikey's ear, voice loud as he says, "Hey, Mikey. Had fun at Gabe's?"

"Fuck you," Mikey says blankly, each movement deliberate as he takes off his own jacket. His eyes are half closed and he's such a fetching shade of green that Gerard's planning to get two cans of kibble, when finally, he sees.

"The fuck?" Gerard grabs Mikey's hand and pulls his arm upward so he can take a better look. It doesn't help. The tattoo's still there, the fucking ugly tattoo. Crimson and black lines slashing across the reddened skin of Mikey's inner arm. If Gerard squints he can vaguely make out some kind of creature, and numbers, a blurry form of yesterday's date.

"It's a ghoul," Mikey says.

Gerard's stomach drops, his baby brother senses almost screaming. "What did you do?"

Frank holds up his own arm, where, almost hidden amongst his other ink, is something Gerard assumes is Cobra. Frank looks from the fresh tattoo to Gerard. "Gabe had hooch."

Gerard starts to pace. "Gabe always has hooch. He's Gabe. That's what he does, it doesn't mean you had to get fucking ugly tattoos."

"And get married," Mikey says, casually, like he's not adding a match to gasoline.

"You got married" Gerard yells, his hands in his hair. "To Frank."

Frank glares up at Gerard. "Of course to me, who fucking else would he marry? And before you ask, we can't annul, we consummated it, at length. Ask Gabe."

Gerard keeps breathing, just, for once words actually failing him as he stalks from the room.


	28. Chapter 28

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ray centric gsf snippet
> 
> Originally posted 2010

Gerard nuzzles against Ray’s hip, his mouth tickling when he says, “We could sue them.”

Ray looks down his own body, and while he’s not Gerard, seeing the world through colours and angles and lines, he loves the contrast of hair against skin. Vibrant red and sun-protected pale and Ray tugs gently, his hands wrapped with strands of crimson. “You can’t sue for someone telling the truth.”

“Fuck that shit,” Gerard says, and his hair is pulled tight around Ray’s fingers. “You’re not doughy.”

Mikey splays his hand over the swell of Ray’s stomach and uses his thumb to trace a short line, sketching invisible patterns. “We should set the fans on them. One tweet and the magazine goes down.”

“Or I could punch that ass in his fucking face,” Frank says. He’s straddling Ray, thighs clamped tight and head tipped back. Ray thrusts up, making Frank gasp.

“You know I’m not pissed,” Ray says. He thrusts again and listens to Frank whimper, a sound that in combination with the feel of Mikey and Gerard, lying warm and solid on each side, causes Ray’s senses to spiral. Pulling in his focus, he adds, “I know what I look like.”

Gerard runs his hand over Ray’s stomach, his fingers touching Mikey’s. “So do we.”

“We do,” Mikey agrees.

Frank shifts. He bends forward, his body fitting easily between Mikey and Gerard and for a moment they remain still, their heads together, blond and dark and red, attention solely on Ray. Then Frank pushes up on his knees and moves in even further, brushes a kiss against Ray’s mouth and says, “You’re perfect.”


	29. Chapter 29

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Kobra Kid/Show Pony -- Pony teaches Kobra to rollerskate.
> 
> Originally posted 2010

“It’s easy,” Show Pony promises, and turns a tight circle around Mikey, who’s sitting at the side of the road, knees bent and head down, his hair falling forward and concealing his face.

Mikey fastens his borrowed rollerskates, bright pink laces cutting white-edged lines against his fingers as he says, “I’m going to break my neck.”

Show Pony skates backwards, and then twirls, arms to the sky and fingers pointed. “No you won’t.”

“An arm then.” Mikey ties a bow and then unfurls, straightening his legs and sitting upright. He brushes back his hair and peers down at his feet. And at this moment, his expression blank and guarded, he’s 100 percent Mikey -- Kobra Kid put aside along with the guns and the jacket.

“You’re not going to break an arm either,” Show Pony promises, because he’s not going to allow that to happen. He skates forward and holds out his hands. “Trust me.”

Instantly, Mikey reaches up, linking their fingers together. “If I break my arm you’ll have to fix my coffee.”

Mikey’s hands feel gritty, the skin of one calloused in parts, fitting the butt of his gun. Show Pony pulls Mikey upright. “You could make coffee one-handed.”

Mikey’s grip tightens as he balances on eight wheels. “What if I break both arms?”

“Then I’ll be out of here,” Show Pony says, and slowly moves backwards. “Because Gerard would kill me.”

Mikey frowns as he takes a half step/half roll forward on one foot. “I’d protect you.”

“How, by being a human shield?” Show Pony grins, imagining trying to hide behind Mikey. “Or are you planning to hit him with your arm splints?”

“I wouldn’t hit Gee,” Mikey says, indignant, like the very idea is absurd, and then amends. “Not hard anyway. Enough for you to get away.”

“You’re all heart,” Show Pony says and skates back, slow, so slow, as Mikey takes another shaky step forward. “And you’re not going to fall.”

Mikey clings on as he pushes off on one foot, his knees bent and back hunched. “I feel like fucking Bambi on ice.”

Show Pony can’t help laughing, the sound loud, breaking the still air. Deliberately, he looks at Mikey’s legs. “I can see the resemblance.”

Mikey pushes off on the opposite foot, tension radiating outwards. “Why am I doing this again?”

“Because I love to skate,” Show Pony says, and moves his thumb so it rests on the delicate skin of Mikey’s inner wrist.

“Right,” Mikey says, and he’s picking up speed, more the crawl of a broken-legged lizard and not one that’s already skewered. “It’s faster going by bike.”

“Not as much fun, though.” Show Pony looks over his shoulder, at the road that stretches for miles, and then back, past Mikey to their shadows that stretch out, elongated and dragging behind them. “Ready to go solo?”

“No,” Mikey says, and keeps skating forward, the jerky roll of his wheels merging with Show Pony’s smooth drone. “If I break my legs....”

“I’ll carry you,” Show Pony says, and tightens his fingers around Mikey’s before letting go and gliding off to one side.

For a moment Mikey flounders, arms outstretched and flailing. Then sinks into the rhythm of his skating, slow but steady, eyes fixed on the horizon.

Show Pony wants to spin and jump, his happiness expressed in the whir of his wheels. Instead he stays at Mikey’s side, says with a grin, “Told you.”

Which is when Mikey goes down. Yelping, he comes to an abrupt stop, his feet flying up as he falls. Instinctively reacting, Show Pony tries to grab hold, and ends on the ground, his ass aching and flat on his back, Mikey stretched out to his side.

Stunned, Show Pony stares up, eyes half closed against the glare of the sun, then looks toward Mikey. “Are you okay?”

“No,” Mikey says, and turns his head, cheek against sandy asphalt and the wheels of his skates still spinning. “I’m broken.”

Imagining snapped bones, Show Pony pushes himself up on his elbow and reaches out, his stomach clenched as he gets ready to skate for the others. “What is it? Leg, arm, tell me it’s not your back.”

“None of those,” Mikey says, and his mouth curls into a smile. “I broke my ass.”

Relief strikes hard and Show Pony hits Mikey hard on the chest. “Bastard.”

Mikey’s smile fades and Show Pony gives one last jab at Mikey’s ribs before lying back down, stretched out in the middle of a road in the middle of a desert. Sand all around and the air hazy with heat.

His wheels finally still, Mikey says, “Stay a while?”

Show Pony curls his hand around Mikey’s in reply.


	30. Chapter 30

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Gen MCR roadtrip
> 
> Originally posted 2011

Dubious, Ray eyes the car Gerard has hired, the bright pink, huge car that he's hired. "A road trip, really?"

"It'll be like old times," Gerard says, up on tiptoes and ass in the air as he arranges luggage inside of the trunk. "We can reconnect."

"I call shotgun." Frank throws his bag on the seat, claiming his space. "And if we're recreating old times we'd better get to piss in bottles and eat candy from truck shops."

Gerard straightens, looking at Frank over the wings of the car. "Just don't throw the bottles and hit any other cars this time."

"Or miss and piss on my leg," Mikey says, where he's already sprawled on the back seat.

"That happened once," Frank says, hand shading his eyes as he watches Gerard try to jam in yet another bag. "Your brother holds a grudge."

Distracted, Gerard keeps rearranging. "Try throwing up on him, he never forgets that shit."

"So this is how it's going to be, whole days stuck in a car listening to talk about vomit and piss." Ray takes a step back, but then stops, his grin wide. "I'm in."

Beaming, Gerard takes a map from his pants pocket, smoothing it out on the trunk. "Think we can make California?"

"Probably not," Ray says simply, watching as Frank settles in the front seat, his feet on the dash and already arguing with Mikey about CD choice. "But let's try anyway."


	31. Chapter 31

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> MCR gen set in the Every Snowflake is Different world.
> 
> Originally posted 2011.

Gerard tugs at the hem of his skirt and ensures the belt of his parka is tight before stepping into the circle. It's not that he's vain, or normally, in any way worried about looking his best, just, this meeting is important -- vitally so.

"Erm, hi." Gerard waves, frowning when he feels his goggles slide further up on his head. "Welcome to the first meeting of the Arctic Avengers."

"The Arctic Avengers? The fuck?" Frank kicks at the snow, causing ice chips that sting Gerard's bare legs. "Since when did we have a name? And a fucking lame one at that."

"All heroes need a name," Gerard says, looking toward Mikey and his inevitable agreement.

Mikey barely looks up from where he's lounging on a block of snow covered ice, says, "They do."

"They'll also get piles sitting on the ice like that," Gerard says, horrified when he ends the sentence with an audible tsk. "Fuck, I'm turning into our mom."

"Your hair is looking kind of epic," Frank says, grin blinding within the fur halo of his hood.

Instantly, Gerard brings his hands to his head, feeling where his goggles have pushed up his hair into wild clumps. Attempting to flatten, he gives up when all his hair does is keep crunching as he breaks the layer of frost. "I hate you."

Frank brings up his hand, two fingers crossed. "You can't, I'm an Arctic Avenger, we're like that."

"Then we're having an in-group dispute," Gerard says, turning so his attention is soley on James. Or Mr Yeti, or even James the Yeti, Gerard still hasn't figured out the honourific title. "Welcome, we're not normally like this."

"No, sometimes Frank pelts him with snowballs, or Gerard tries to make Mikey wear fur leggings," Ray says, smiling as he holds out his hand. "Welcome to the group."

"Thanks." James grins as he speaks, his horns shaking as turns his head to look at them all. "Nice to meet you."

His hand still over his snowflake communicator, Mikey looks up briefly, "Hi."

"Hello," Frank says, head tilted to one side, and Gerard knows what's coming, Frank stepping forward even as Gerard mouths, 'no'. "Can I touch your horns?"

James laughs in reply.


	32. Chapter 32

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Killjoys at Christmas snippet
> 
> Originally posted 2011

Truthfully, Gerard isn't sure that it's actually Christmas -- for all he knows it isn't even winter at all -- there's no way to tell.

None of that matters.

Slowly he approaches the bone tree, sand shifting under his feet and a hot wind flinging dust in his eyes. Gerard squints and stretches up high, hanging the tin can from a needle-like branch.

Immediately it starts swinging, bright metal glinting, star-bursts of light that never stop shining.

One tin can of many. Representing the here and the now, those living and lost.

Gerard reaches out his hand, takes hold of Mikey's and Ray's, looks to ensure Frank and Bob are holding on too.

When he's sure that they are, Gerard says simply, "Happy Christmas."

And it's not the same, it can't be.

It's enough.


End file.
